


Running

by johnsarmylady



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-07 15:52:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnsarmylady/pseuds/johnsarmylady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What is Sherlock investigating that has SOMEONE so worried? And how far will they go to stop the Consulting Detective and his faithful Blogger</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Leaning heavily on his cane John looked down at the body lying face down in the empty house.  Behind him Sherlock was being Sherlock, spouting everything about the woman’s life history, but John just looked down.

“Thought John had got rid of his stick” Greg Lestrade kept his voice down, but his eyes slid over in the doctor’s direction and he looked at the bowed head, the slumped shoulders. “What happened?”

Sherlock followed his gaze, seeing what Greg saw but observing so much more.  There were dark shadows under his friend’s eyes, and every now and then he shifted his weight to ease his leg a little.

“You missed the obvious, Lestrade, or your memory is faulty.” Sherlock spoke equally quietly although he was certain that John was aware they would be talking about him. “When we first met John’s psychosomatic limp was in his right leg.”

Greg’s eyes widened slightly as he noticed for the first time that John was favouring his left leg.

“What happened?”

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_3 Days Earlier….._

John stumbled down the stairs from his bedroom where, five minutes earlier he had been sleeping off a particularly nasty headache. Under his breath he was cursing all noisy flatmates and Sherlock in particular. He was preparing a lecture of gargantuan proportions as he walked into the living room, only to discover the source of the noise was not his genius friend after all.

The man currently rampaging through Sherlocks papers was about the same height as John, though stockier, on the verge of overweight.  At the sound of John entering the room he looked up, startled, his face so comically like that of a child caught with his fingers in the biscuit tin the doctor almost laughed. Only almost. Instead he folded his arms across his chest and stood squarely blocking the intruders exit.

“What the fuck d’you think you’re doing?”

The man stood and stared, the file in his hand falling unheeded to the floor.  John’s gaze never left his face, a habit that was second nature to him, that on many an occasion has saved his life, and it was to do so again now as he noticed the slight flicker of the man’s eyes to a spot over Johns left shoulder.

Ducking slightly to his right and pivoting on his left foot he swung round to face the second intruder, his hand reaching up to grasp the other’s wrist, twisting it and forcing him to drop the carving knife that had been taken from the block in the kitchen.  Fortune however wasn’t on his side that afternoon.  The man was fast, and apparently ambidextrous, for he caught the knife as it fell and thrust upwards, burying it deep in John’s thigh.

With a cry the injured man collapsed to the floor clutching his leg, and had to watch helplessly as the trespassers dashed out of the door empty handed.

Swallowing down the nausea that threatened to engulf him John tried to assess the damage.  It was fortunate for him that his attacker had not really had the time to aim his thrust. The fact that he could still feel and move his leg – albeit painfully – almost certainly meant the damage was not life threatening, the knife had not sliced through a major artery or tendons. 

Laying back on the floor John gingerly pulled his leg up so that his foot was flat on the floor, his knee raised.   With one shaking hand he fumbled at his belt buckle, finally releasing it and pulling the sturdy leather through the belt loops on his jeans.  At last the belt came free from the denim material, and John lay panting from his exertions.

After a moment’s rest the doctor slid the belt around his thigh, a few inches above where the knife still protruded and tightened it as far as he could to slow down the flow of blood.  Counting slowly to sixty he then grasped the knife by the remaining area of blade (from somewhere in the back of his mind he could hear Sherlocks voice reminding him that there may be fingerprints on the handle) and gently lifted it away from his leg, groaning as it came free.

Carefully placing it on the couch – Sherlock could roll his eyes and complain about the bloodstains all he liked, he thought to himself, it was safer there! – John watched the blood slowly oozing into the material around the deep gash and slowly counted to sixty once more before loosening the makeshift tourniquet.  There was no noticeable increase in blood flow, so he decided against re-applying it. Rolling the belt up he shoved it into his pocket and propped himself up on his elbows, considering his options.

Glancing over to the coffee table he noticed his phone was sitting where he had left it earlier in the day. Taking a deep breath he eased himself along the floor until he was close enough to reach up and pull the phone into his hand.

Sherlock grimaced as his phone buzzed in his inside pocket.

“Get that John, and if it’s Mycroft, delete it. I’ve told him I’m not interested in his ridiculous foreign scandals.” Not once did he take his eye away from the microscope.  There was something wrong with the reaction on the slide and he was watching it, processing the reactions through the science lab that resided in his mind palace.

There it was again, that infernal buzzing.

“For goodness sake, John!  Can’t you do something about that…” he lifted his head and scanned the room for his usually constant companion, impatience writ large on his pale sharp features.  Where on earth is… _Oh!_ _Of course!_ Memories of the nagging disappointment he had felt when John declined to accompany him to the lab at St Bart’s, pleading a crippling headache as reason to  stay behind. To be fair his eyes, the tension in his shoulders and neck all indicated high levels of pain, and he had grudgingly, unwillingly, agreed that yes, John would probably be better off in bed with a couple of paracetamol.

Reaching into his jacket he pulled out his iPhone and noted the two messages.

‘Where are you? – JW’

At this first text Sherlock smirked  - Surely John hadn’t forgotten where he was going? He opened the second.

‘Please come – need help. – JW’

Suddenly his body stilled, and he stared at the words on the screen. Was the headache worse than he originally thought? What if it was more than just a headache? He opened a reply message.

‘What’s wrong? – SH’

No response.

‘John? – SH’

Chewing at his lower lip Sherlock willed the phone to buzz with a response.

‘John! – SH’

Pulling on his coat he shoved the phone in his pocket.

“Everything okay?” Molly walked in and smiled “Did you work out….” she stumbled over her words, “….er, whatever it was you wanted to work out?”

Sherlock frowned down at her as her wrapped his scarf around his neck.

“You’re babbling, Molly. How on earth did you manage to pass the required exams to do your job?”

Hurt flashed in the young woman’s eyes.  Even though she knew this was normal for the consulting detective, she had half hoped that the help she had given him when he faked his death would have proved her worth and capability to him.  Sherlock however didn’t see it, he simply stared blankly down at Molly.

“I’ve got to go. I’ll be back later.” And without a backward glance he strode from the room.

Watching his retreating back Molly sighed, and started to clear away the slides and samples. She carefully labelled them and placed them in the storage facility, knowing he would expect them to be available when he deigned to return.

The cab driver could see that the pale dark-haired passenger was becoming increasingly irritated by the delay in his journey.  The traffic was heavier than usual, perhaps due to the multitude of tourists that had descended on the capital, whatever the cause, his passenger was not happy.  Every two minutes he pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and stared at it, as if willing a call or a message, and every two minutes he was doomed to disappointment.  The driver opened his mouth to speak but…

“No. Don’t speak!  Just get me to Baker Street as quickly and quietly as possible!”

With a slight shake of his head the driver decided some passengers were best ignored.

At last Sherlock climbed out of the cab, paying the driver and stalking in through the black door. He took the stairs two at a time, burst through the flat door and stopped dead, frozen to the spot.

John Watson lay, unconscious on the living room floor, a fair sized blood stain on the carpet under his leg.

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Why the hell didn’t I hear about this when it happened?” Greg tried to keep his voice down but it was difficult.  He was fuming at being kept out of the loop.

“Sorry Greg,” John’s voice, quiet behind the Detective Inspector, made him jump a little none the less. “The other Holmes persuaded the hospital that there was no need to report this incident to the police regardless of standard procedure.”  He sighed as he saw frustration tinged with understanding on the older man’s face. 

Limping slowly round so that he was now standing beside his flatmate, and keeping an eye on the rest of Lestrades team, he added “Actually we were going to ask you to come to the flat, if you hadn’t got in first with this crime scene.” A small smile flashed across his pale features. “Has he solved it for you yet?”

“Do you have to ask?” Sherlock quirked an elegant eyebrow at his friend.

Lestrade shrugged. “He’s given us enough to make an arrest.”

“Good. Can you leave it with Sally?” he ignored Sherlocks snort of derision. “This discussion isn’t one I’d feel comfortable holding in your office.”

“Yet you’re happy to discuss it where you know Mycroft can hear?” For the first time since hearing about the attack Greg actually felt like smiling.

“Yeah, well, he already knows anyway…..and who’s to say he hasn’t got your office bugged _Detective_ _Inspector_!”

“He wouldn’t…..”

“You don’t know my brother very well, do you?” Sherlock smirked.

Lestrade rolled his eyes, he wasn’t about to let these two know that he was seriously worrying now about the privacy of his own office.  Instead he nodded to them and turned away.

“Sally!” he called through the open doorway to where his sergeant was talking to one of the other officers from the squad.

John limped quietly from the room with Sherlock close behind him, leaving Lestrade to brief his officers.

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 Greg walked through the door into the Baker Street flat and was greeted by the unusual sight of Sherlock making tea for his flatmate who was currently half sitting, half laying on the couch, his head and shoulders propped up with an odd assortment of cushions and pillows. 

John looked at the expression on his face and grinned.

“He makes quite a good cup of tea – although that may be something to do with the appalling amount of practice he’s had lately!”

“And you trust him not to put some….I dunno…some experimental something or other in it?”

“Well that was easy to understand Lestrade; I’m beginning to see why they made you a Detective Inspector.”  Sherlock walked in carrying three mugs of tea in one hand and a bottle of painkillers in the other.  He looked at Lestrade who was, if his expression was anything to go by, trying to work out whether or not he had just been insulted, and added “It means that you can get other, better qualified, people to write your reports for you!”

Yup, he’d just been insulted! And by the way John was obviously hurting himself trying not to laugh he’d get no back up there!

“Drink your tea, Greg.” John finally managed, in between chuckles, “and be thankful he didn’t hear that comment _before_ he poured it for you!”

“John! I wouldn’t stoop so low!” Sherlock feigned hurt as he shook two of the pills into his friend’s outstretched hand.

Relaxing back into John’s armchair Greg watched as the self-confessed sociopath hovered solicitously over the invalid.  Yeah, he thought, no matter what he might say he’s not such an antisocial prat as he likes to make out! Pulling his thoughts back to the present he took a sip of his drink (John was right, it really was quite good!) and put the mug on the floor beside him.

“So are you two going to tell me what this is all about?”

John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to gather his thoughts.

“The thing is, Greg, we’re not too sure exactly what’s going on here.” John’s glance flicked between the two detectives. “Since I got back from the hospital Sherlock and I have been going through the cases that we have worked over the last year.  Those guys were looking for something, so we started with the files they were looking at.  Sherlock has physically checked the place over for anything they may have been looking for – or any nasties they may have left – but nothing. All in all we’re out of ideas!”

“Really?” Lestrade looked stunned.

Sherlock glared. “You wouldn’t believe how frustrating this is proving to be.  We know they were after something, but there are no clues as to what!”

“And the files they were looking at?”

“No good, Greg. I think they assumed we were both out and so they started with the first pile of papers they came across.” John leaned his head tiredly back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling. “When I disturbed them they were unprepared, startled.  If they had been expecting one of us to be here I would quite possibly not be here now. They would have finished what they started, instead of running – the assault was unplanned.” He stopped, as if he had suddenly run out of energy. The other two waited, but when he remained silent Sherlock took up the story.

“I have managed to get prints from the handle of the knife; Mycroft is having them checked now.  He also sent over an artist, so we have a good likeness of the man John disturbed going through the papers in here.” He reached across to his desk and picked up an A4 sheet. “You might want to make discrete enquiries.”

Greg looked at the picture, but there was nothing familiar about it at all.

“What can I do to help?”

“We think it must be connected to a case that we have worked on, so we’ll need access to the Yard’s records of the cases you’ve call us in on.”

“Bloody hell, Sherlock, that’s a heck of a lot of paperwork!” Lestrade ran his hands through his greying hair.  “I suppose I could arrange for an office to be made available for you….”

“No!” Sherlock leapt to his feet and crossed to the window. “I don’t think using an office at the Yard as our base will be suitable – you know how I work.”

“Somehow I don’t think the Chief Superintendent would be too happy either” there was just the hint of a smile in John’s tired voice. “He still hasn’t forgiven His Lordship there for coming back from the dead.” He lifted his head and looked searchingly at Greg. “Listen mate, we know it’s a lot to ask, but there was something not right about that break in.  They were plainly amateurs who panicked – burglars would have just tried to fight their way out, not attempt murder. If I hadn’t seen his mate looking at him he’d have stabbed me in the back.”

“And we don’t keep copious notes of all the cases – just the interesting ones.” Sherlock added.

Greg exhaled loudly, picking up his mug and swallowing the rest of his tea. For a moment he considered his options, then realised that actually, there was only one.

“Okay.  How do you want to do this?  Most recent first I assume?” he nodded as if answering his own question. “Yeah, that would make sense.  I’ll pull out the most recent dozen and bring them over myself this evening.  Need a hand going through them?”

Sherlock was about to refuse but a look from his flatmate stilled his tongue.

“We can offer you tea and take-away if you want to help kick start the investigation Greg. Thank you”

Lestrade consulted his watch. “Right then. See you around six thirty.”

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The Blind Beggar pub in Whitechapel Road once had a reputation as a villain’s pub, frequented by the likes of the Kray and Richardson gangs.  Nowadays it was just run down, living on its history and bad reputation.

In a dark corner furthest from the door two would-be villains were sitting on worn and much repaired chairs, sipping their pints of beer, each lost in his own thoughts.   One was short and stocky, bordering on overweight.  The other was a little shorter and wiry but very strong, his face bearing the marks of an amateur career in the boxing ring.

It was the ex-boxer that first noticed the two men in sharp suits entering the pub, their eyes taking in every patron, alighting at last on his partner in crime.  He saw the look of recognition cross their faces, and giving them no chance to get close to him he leapt to his feet and abandoning his ‘friend’ ran through the door that led to the toilets. The ‘suits’ separated, one followed him, and the other cornered the remaining man at the table.

Moments later a very disappointed man returned to the bar area.  The wily ex-boxer had managed to escape through a window to the yard and was over the wall and gone leaving his pursuer with the unenviable task of telling his boss that one of the burglars had got away.  The remaining miscreant slid lower in his chair, looking with fear at the two men who stood over him. He licked his lips and swallowed convulsively, trying not to show the fear he felt.

After a moment or two of staring down at him, the taller of the ‘suits’ leaned down, bringing his lean, smooth shaven face close to his prey, and whispered menacingly “Our boss would like a word with you!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The term ‘Suits’ was fairly commonly used by blue collar or manual workers when referring to white collar or office workers. In London it has also been used in the same context that I have used here, in referring to a sharply dressed or ‘suited’ person.


	3. Chapter 3

The austere-looking man in dark grey three piece suit stood thumbing through the file in his hands, occasionally humming as if a particular item of information was of great importance.

The man sitting in the hard utilitarian chair at the plain wooden table alternately inspected his rather bleak surroundings and the man with the file who looked entirely out of place.

After fifteen minutes of excruciating silence broken only by the turning  of pages the seated man fidgeted uncomfortably, folding and unfolding his arms, crossing right leg over left and then left leg over right a moment or two later.  Each time he moved the suited man appeared to stop reading, his eyes would stop scanning the page, and as the fidgeting stilled the man would read again. It was unnerving.

With a loud slapping sound the file suddenly hit the table.  A benign smile spread across the face of the man in the suit, but it didn’t reach his eyes. 

“Mr Moody.  Or would you rather I call you Arthur?”  He sat down now and fixed his icy blue eyes on the quaking man sitting opposite him. “Although last month it was Terry Wantage, and before that Benny McAlpin, Vince Powell and Charlie Larch.  A man of many names, but very few talents!” His voice had dropped to a low snarl with those last words, and the man he was speaking to almost wet himself with fear.

“I…I...Moody, Arthur Moody is me real name.”

“Yes, I know.” That smile again.  If his brother had been present it would have put him in mind of a certain crocodile – nemesis of a much loved pirate captain.  This man had spent years perfecting this particular method of intimidation and would use it now to good effect. “Now Arthur, I have a proposal for you.  I am going to ask you some questions, and you……well, you are going to answer them Arthur, as fully and as honestly as you can….if, that is, you know what is good for you.”

Moody whimpered and nodded.

Satisfied, Mycroft Holmes sat back in his chair, all elegance and terrifying threat. “So tell me Arthur, who sent you to search 221B Baker Street?”

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It was almost midnight, and Lestrade had long since excused himself, leaving Sherlock and John ploughing through the remaining files in the box. Stifling a groan John eased himself off the couch and leaning heavily on his stick limped towards the kitchen.

“Getting painkillers – want anything?”

Sherlock barely responded with a shake of his head, he was concentrating on the notes in his hands, his eyes staring unblinking at the reams of typed pages.  As his mind turned over the information contained in the bulging manila files the quiet of the flat was harshly disrupted by the shrill ringing of his iPhone. Reaching out he picked it up, noting the caller id as he answered it.

“Mycroft, I assume you’ve found something interesting?”

“We found two men, the one John saw and we assume the one that attacked him. Unfortunately my men let one of them escape, he…”

“That was careless of them.  Do they still work for you?”

“……he apparently jumped out of a toilet window and vaulted over the back wall of a public house in the east end of London.”  Mycroft’s voice oozed distaste.

“And the other one?” Seeing John shuffling back into the room Sherlock put the phone on speaker so that his flatmate could hear the conversation.

“It would appear the other one was there because he was brought along on the job by our missing man, and promised a fat fee on completion. The only instruction he was given was that he had to look through your papers and files.”

“What? Just randomly look through…..”

“They were looking for a name.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “For God’s sake get to the point Mycroft, what name?”

“I wish brother dear that I knew. The missing man – one William Phillips, known to his friends by the unlikely name of Bill the Bruiser – is the one with all the information. Our captive crook thinks the name might begin with a ‘K’, but cannot remember more than that!”

“And that hardly qualifies as remembering does it” John lowered himself gingerly back onto the couch, trying not to aggravate his injured leg.

“Is that it?” Sherlock was seething “Is that all you have?”

“No, I also have a very good likeness of the man we are seeking.”

“Given to you I don’t doubt by that idiot you have in your interview room.” Sherlock sneered “And who’s to say he….”

“Do you really think me that foolish? My men got a good look at him.  They described him to my profile artist and then we showed the result to our captive. His fear wasn’t faked.” His smugness was palpable. “He was terrified, brother.  I’ll send you the picture; you may want to get Lestrade to circulate it. Goodnight John, Sherlock.” And the line went dead.

Seconds later the mobile buzzed with the incoming picture message, and Sherlock leaned over so that John could look too. “Familiar?” he asked.

“Didn’t really get a good look, Sherlock, more an impression of someone small and fast, but that….I dunno…yeah, familiar, but I wouldn’t like to swear to it in court.”

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Sometimes Greg Lestrade wondered who it was he was actually working for.  It should be the Metropolitan Police – after all that’s who actually put his pay into his bank account every month so it would be a reasonable assumption wouldn’t it? So why, he asked himself, was he sitting up in bed at twenty to one in the morning looking at a MMS message from London’s favourite sociopath with an attached command to ‘ _print half a dozen clear copies – I’ll pick them up in the morning’_ ? He squinted at the picture but his eyes and brain were refusing to speak to each other so he gave up, turned his phone off and went back to sleep.

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Taking that first sip of his chocolate topped double strength cappuccino Greg sighed – heaven! Much better than the instant rubbish he tended to keep in his flat. He relaxed back in his leather swivel chair, eyes closed, just enjoying the aroma and the smooth taste, taking a moment before the phones started ringing and London’s crooks came out of the woodwork……so it was no surprise that he almost fell out of his chair, his much prized coffee spilling into his lap, when Sherlock flung the office door open and swept into the room.

“Shit…..fuck….fucking hell Sherlock!” Lestrade was hopping from foot to foot trying to pull scalding hot material away from his legs – and other more sensitive areas – while glaring at the man who was currently standing watching all this with a kind of detached interest. “When will you learn you can’t just burst into my office…….”

“But I just did, Inspector. There was no-one to stop me.”

Lestrade opened his mouth to reply, but saw the expression on the other man’s face and decided he really didn’t want to be insulted on top of everything else. Grabbing a handful of tissues from a box that lived on top of his filing cabinet he tried a little damage limitation on his trousers.

“If I were you I’d go home and change those, Greg.”

Belatedly Lestrade noticed John standing in the doorway trying to control a tick in his left cheek.  If the Detective Inspector hadn’t known better he would have sworn that the doctor was trying to keep a straight face.

“In fact,” he added, his voice now sounding slightly strangled, but the face and tick remaining firmly controlled “I would probably go an put some cold water on the scalded area – prevent blisters you know.”

“Yeah, _thanks_ John!” The balled up coffee stained tissues hit the litter bin with a dull thud, followed closely by the now empty take-away coffee cup. “And dare I ask why you two are here before 8am?”

“You did get my message last night?” Sherlock leaned against filing cabinet, hands in his coat pocket.

“No, I got your message this morning Sherlock.   Don’t you ever sleep?”

“Rarely.” Came the bored reply.

“Well some of us need our sleep. _I_ need my sleep.”

John moved further into the room and gestured at the chair in front of the desk as if asking permission to sit.  Greg suddenly looked guilty.

“Yeah, sit down mate. Sorry.”

Waving the apology away John sat and leaned his stick against the desk.

“Seriously Greg you should be more careful, that could have been quite nasty. After all, how many years have you known this madman?” he flicked his eyes towards his flatmate who was at that moment rifling through the papers in Lestrades in-tray. “You should have known he’d come bursting in here before most of your team were even awake!”

“I know but….Oi! Leave those bloody papers alone Sherlock!” He reached out to snatch the papers out of Sherlocks hand but the younger man nimbly dodged out of the way, his eyes taking in the data then narrowing in thought.  He stood still long enough for Lestrade to retrieve the sheets from the now lax fingers and he was just filing them back into the pile when Sherlock grasped his wrist.

“The husband has hidden the painting without the knowledge of his wife or daughters.”

“What? How on earth did you work that out?”

“Obvious John, art like that is generally very well secured and extremely well insured.  The wife’s statement rings true, the words she uses are unrehearsed, not forced in any way. She’s worried about the loss not about whether she’ll be caught out in a lie, and the daughters are too young to have any real idea of the value of the painting. The husband now, he’s playing games, but he’s too stupid to do it well. I think you’ll find the husband begrudges the fact that something so valuable was left to the women – rightly so I might add because he’s a drinker – so he staged the theft firstly to claim the insurance and secondly to sell it on when the fuss dies down.” He looked smugly at the Detective Inspector. “Ask him about the private locker he has at his sports club. And now that I’ve solved that for you, can I have the prints?”

“Prints?” 

“The message last night? It might interest you to know that we think the man pictured is the one who stabbed John.”


	4. Chapter 4

The room was small, grubby, and dark. The underlying smell of stale sweat and leather caused one of the rooms’ occupants to wrinkle his nose in distaste, and he sat – reluctantly – in the rickety old chair behind the equally elderly desk looking up at the ex-boxer.

“You’re certain that nobody will associate you with this place? A boxing club would surely be the first place they’ll look for you now that fool you took with you has blabbed.”  The speaker’s face was in shadow, as it had been each time these two men had met.

“The filth have been here and searched the place. I’ve got friends though and secure hiding places, so as you see they didn’t find me.” Despite feeling a little uncomfortable under the other man’s scrutiny Bill Phillips was sure that he was safe. “I’ve been living here for months and no one has known about it – call it hiding in plain sight.”

The other man nodded.  “What now?”

“I’ll try the flat again – maybe I’ll get hold of Holmes himself.” A frown furrowed his already lined brow. “I should have finished that other bloke off while I had the chance though, it’s thanks to him they found Arty an’ me…”

“Maybe, but it’s too late to worry about that now.  How will you do it?”

“Like I said, I’ve got friends,” confidence growing again Phillips leaned against the wall and shoved his hands in his pockets “I’m getting a team together – half a dozen or so good blokes – the police will get fed up with looking for me after a while, I’m small fry as far as they’re concerned and a case of burglary and GBH is not worth their time.”

“Just make sure they cannot be traced back to me – if you get caught you’re on your own!” the man stood, straightening his suit and pushing his broad-brimmed straw Fedora more firmly onto his head he walked out of the office, speaking briefly to a young lad who had been watching the sparring match before the two left the building.  Anyone watching would have taken them for father and son just leaving a training session – perfect cover.

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Sherlock and John had split up, Sherlock traveling in a cab to the south bank of the Thames where the homeless population were scattered under bridges and archways, the morning still too early for many of them.

John, in deference to his sore but healing leg was in John-Joseph’s café, drinking tea and persuading that staunch supporter to keep a copy of the artist’s likeness behind the counter.  To the average passing trade they were just owner and customer sharing a laugh and passing the time, but ever the man of conscience John was impressing upon the other man the need for caution if he should see this particular crook.

“Seriously JJ, he’s an ex-boxer, he’s fast and he’s not afraid to use violence,” he gestured to his leg “as I know to my cost!”

“And you should know us well enough now Doc, we look after our own.” There was no mistaking that look that was saying ‘and you are one of our own’.  JJ smiled as John’s face turned an interesting shade of pink. “Leave it with me.”

John nodded once and pulled out his wallet to pay for his tea.  “While you’re at it JJ can I have a very sweet tea and a bacon baguette to take away please?” He grinned as the café owner frowned, “I’ve got a call to make and after the last time I’m hoping this will make my visit more welcome.”

Five minute later the good doctor was making his way down Villiers Street at a steady pace. About two thirds of the way down the hill he turned into Hungerford Lane, at the end of which was a bland looking former shop unit, its windows blacked out, the door closed with buzzer entry and key code pad.  Leaning against the wall he carefully entered the door code and it opened with an audible click.

Moving carefully in, he paused before opening an inner door and putting his head round.  Holding the take-away cup and sandwich bag out he said softly “I come bearing gifts.”

The blond girl who had at that moment been checking stock turned around, a wide smile already splitting her face. “Hi Doc.  What ya got then?” Her eyes fell on the food and drink, and then on the stick and the way the man in the doorway was keeping the weight off his leg, and the smile faded.

“Shit Doc, what happened?” she grabbed a chair as she spoke and pushed it towards him. “Sit down.”

“Thanks, Kallie.  How’s things?  How do you like the job?”

Kallie looked down at him as she pulled the baguette out of its wrappings.  After she had been released from hospital Doctor John had found her a place in a good, clean hostel and this job working at the needle exchange.  She knew he felt guilty that she’d been injured.

“Come on Doc, what happened?”

John smiled. “Got on the wrong side of the bad guys again Kallie – you know what it’s like working with Sherlock!”

She grinned back around a mouthful of bread and bacon. An almost companionable silence settled over them while Kallie finished her breakfast. At last she scrunched up the sandwich bag and thrust it into the empty cup, throwing both into the bin.  When she looked again at John her expression was serious.

“Thank you for the breakfast.  And I never got the chance to thank you for saving my life and setting me up with this,” she gestured around the room “but you’re not here just to ask how I am, are you?”

“No, but neither do I want you putting yourself in danger again Kallie.” He pulled another copy of the picture out of an inner pocket and unrolled it. “This is the man responsible for me needing a stick to walk with, he’s an ex-boxer and he’s violent. Now I don’t want you looking for him – we’re not even sure where he’s likely to be – but if you see him just let us know.”  He looked seriously into her eyes. “I meant what I said Kallie, don’t do anything heroic – just ring us, or text.”

“I can ask arou….”

“No Kallie!  Please.” Running a hand over his face he wondered if involving the girl again had been a wise decision.  A hand resting on his shoulder brought his head up and he found himself looking into sharp blue eyes.

“Don’t worry Doc, I’ll stay clear.”

Nodding John got to his feet. “Thanks Kallie, take care of yourself.” He was treated to a brief warm hug, which he returned with a smile.

Leaving the premises John headed towards Northumberland Avenue, opting for a lesser hill to climb to find a cab.  He shot a quick text to his flatmate arranging to meet back at Baker Street before mulling over the different cases he and Sherlock had worked on. He was so lost in thought that he almost missed the sound of footsteps coming up behind him and the unmistakable tingling sixth sense that told him these were not just ordinary commuters.  Without wishing to appear as if he’d noticed he increased his pace, his eyes darting around for a place of safety to slip into, but there was no-where to go. Looking up he saw the CCTV cameras, but they were concentrated on other things.

Just as he pulled out his mobile to call for help he received a shove in the back which sent him sprawling into a narrow service alleyway between two buildings, his phone skittering off along the pavement. Biting back a cry of pain he tried to stand up, but now there were not only the two men who had followed him, but two more had been waiting in the alleyway, and one of them kicked his injured leg sending him crashing once more to the ground.

“Where’s your mate?  Where’s Sherlock Holmes?” the voice was muffled as its owner had pulled a scarf up over his nose and mouth.

John gritted his teeth and looked up at them; they were all similarly covered with scarves and woollen beanie hats.

“Don’t know.” He ground out, his voice laced with pain.

“Don’t mess us about!” said another voice, this time accompanied by a boot in the ribs, and John heard as well as felt a rib crack.

“He went off somewhere – didn’t tell me where.”

“Alright then –“   another kick, this time in the back, “ – what about your files?  Where can we find the paperwork?”

Shaking his head, trying to clear it a little, John swallowed.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about…”

Another boot – another voice.

“It’s taking too long! Just make sure he won’t be talking to the police anytime soon.”

Cold fear swept through the man on the floor, and he tried desperately to curl into a ball to protect himself from the swinging boots as all four men laid into him. After what seemed like hours a well-placed boot to the back of John’s head ended the torture as he felt consciousness slip away.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

 Sherlock strode away from Waterloo Bridge where his last copy of the picture had been left with a skinny red-headed boy, one of his best sources of information.  It took him mere moments to hail a cab and soon he was en route to Baker Street.

Sitting back in his seat he stared out of the window but not at the passing scenery. His eyes were turned inward to his mind palace as he wandered through their most recent cases, trying to find a protagonist whose name began with K.  It was giving him a headache, the frustration of not being able to identify this person.  Names and cases flew through his mind, faces and places, results and arrests, none of them fitted. 

Sherlock was still partly lost in his own mind when the cab pulled up outside 221B and he absently alighted and paid the driver, crossing the pavement and unlocking the front door.  As he stepped through he was shoved violently and fell through into the hallway. It took only moments for the three men who had hurried through the door behind him to knock him to the floor and overpower him.

“Drag him upstairs!”

Sherlock tried to see who his attackers were, but he had blood streaming into one eye from a cut on his forehead, and the other eye was rapidly closing as a result of a fair right hook from one of his assailants. He let himself go limp – no point in making this easy for them – and had the pleasure of listening to them grumble about the dead weight in their hands.

Finally they reached the flat, and Sherlock was flung unceremoniously onto the couch.  He pulled himself into a sitting position.

“What do you want?”

“Shut up” a backhander caught him squarely across the nose and blood spurted out, splattering across the coffee table. “You’ll speak when you’re spoken to.”

“I said what do you want?” Sherlock was never one to do as he was told, and it resulted in his hair being grabbed in a meaty fist, and his head being dragged up so that the leader of this gang could lean down and sneer at him.

“And I said…”

“I know you.” Sherlock interrupted him, “know your face.”

“What??”

Sherlock smiled slightly despite the pain in his face. “Seen your picture, know your face – is that clear enough for you?”

“Will you shut up?”

“Oh, don’t you want to know where my files are?” John had insisted on putting the files back into their box and stashing them under Sherlocks bed, meaning that the only papers the other two thugs could rifle through were the same pile of notes that Arthur Moody had looked through before.  Sherlock hoped to keep them occupied in the living room until John came back.

Bill Phillips let go of  Sherlocks hair and directed the two other men to leave the papers on the desk and to look in every cupboard in the living room and kitchen.

“Fridge.”

“What?”

Sherlock dabbed at the blood running from his nose.

“I said don’t go in the fridge, you’ll spoil John’s dinner.”

Keeping one eye on the consulting detective he called through to the man currently going through the food cupboards “Look in the fridge,  I think he’s hiding something in there.”   As he said it Bill vaguely wondered why this didn’t seem right, but he had no other time to consider what as a fearful scream rent the air and his subordinate ran from the kitchen, a look of horror on his face.

“Eyes!” he babbled, eyes wide with fear, saliva dribbling from his slack lips.  “He’s got eyes and tongues! Loads of them!  In the fridge!”

Taking advantage of the confusion caused by the other man’s words Sherlock flung himself upwards at the leader. Bill was ready for him though, and threw him across the room. Changing tack Sherlock clutched at, and caught hold of, the third man, pulling him down onto the floor.

The man from the kitchen was already on his way back down the stairs when the sound of the front door bursting open reached their ears. Bill had been about to punch Sherlock again, but changed his mind and just dragged him off of the man he was trying to pin to the carpet before  kicking him in the stomach. Winded, Sherlock collapsed back against the empty fireplace and the last he saw of the remaining two men was their retreating backs as they climbed out of the kitchen window, dropping down into Mrs Hudson’s back yard and making good their escape across the back yards of the adjoining properties.

 There was a thunder of feet running up the stairs, and Lestrade burst through the flat door.

“Ah. Scotland Yard to the rescue.” Sherlock picked himself up, still a little winded, and staggered to the kitchen to get a wet tea towel to clean himself up.  “I half expected it to be John.”

Greg looked around the room then back at Sherlocks face.

“Bloody hell mate, they’ve given you a right going over! Come on, I’ll take you to the hospital, get that lot cleaned up.”

The younger man waved him away “No, I’ll get John to look at it when he gets home.”

Lestrade went very still.

“You’ve not heard?  John was found unconscious in an alley near the Embankment, he’d been beaten up.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No violence in this chapter, just a warning not to read while eating (it will become obvious).

Sitting in the passenger seat of Lestrades car Sherlock was quietly seething.  He wasn’t sure what pained him more – his face, his stomach or the fact that he was completely in the dark about this mystery.

“Are you listening to me?” Greg new better than to ask if the younger man was alright even if it was obvious he wasn’t.

Sherlock frowned, and then winced as it pulled the cut on his forehead and the swollen skin around his eye.

“This isn’t the way to Bart’s.”

“No. Maybe now you might try listening to me.  They took John to Tommy’s, so I’m taking you there.  Once we get you sorted out we can see how John’s getting on.”

“No we’ll see John first.”

“’Fraid not Sherlock, and you can’t bully your way around this one.  You try to force your way in and their security will throw you out – not even I can get you back in if that happens.” He glanced in the direction of his passenger and saw him shrug deeper into his coat and slide slightly lower in his seat. “I mean it, whatever you are planning – don’t!  I’ll bloody arrest you myself if I have to.”

Sherlock folded his arms over his chest and turned to squint out of the window.  Greg laughed.

“It’s hard to be huffy when your face is in that much of a mess isn’t it!” he chuckled.

As the car pulled into the Police bay outside the Accident and Emergency department Sherlock already had the door open and was reaching to undo his seatbelt when he realised there was someone standing beside him.  He looked up, straight into the smirking face of Sally Donovan.

“I’ve been told I can arrest you if you don’t go straight into A&E!” she said gleefully.

“Try it!” he growled attempting to step round her. She grasped his arm and surprise stopped him dead.  He looked pointedly at her hand.

“He’s in a bad way Sherlock.” Sally’s voice was serious now, her eyes searching his face trying to read his reaction. “They don’t know how long he’s been unconscious, he’s covered in bruises and there is a possibility of internal injuries.  Those bruises definitely look like boot marks” her last sentence was directed at her boss.

Greg looked more weary than surprised as he escorted Sherlock inside.  Thankfully when he had called ahead Sally had had the forethought to advise the duty doctor, and they were escorted straight to a cubicle.  A young nurse came in to take details, and Greg’s expression reminded Sherlock that the only way he would get to see how John was faring was to cooperate fully.  He refused however to remove his jacket and shirt until Sergeant Donovan left.  With her smirk firmly back in place she went to see if there was any news.

A harassed and overworked doctor pushed through the curtains, a clipboard in hand and more than half his concentration on the paperwork.  He peered at the man lying on the examination table then looked across at Lestrade.

“This is the second patient I’ve seen today who’s been beaten up….”

“You treated John?” Sherlock sat up suddenly, making himself dizzy in the process but determined to interrogate the doctor.

The doctor frowned. “You know Mr Watson?”

“Doctor Watson.” The two detectives spoke in unison.

“Oh.”  The doctor glanced from one to the other. “Are these attacks linked?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but Greg held a hand up to silence him – and was as surprised as the young man himself that it had the desired effect!

“Doctor, at the moment I’m more concerned about that – ” he pointed at the spreading area of bruising on Sherlocks abdomen “ – although he’d never admit it this injury has been causing him pain all the way here.”

Looking down, the doctor gave his full attention to his patient, his fingers gently palpating the area. Hissing with pain it was all Sherlock could do to keep himself from scooting sideways away from those intrusive digits.  The doctor tutted and pushed slightly harder around the edges where purple flesh met alabaster, pausing to make notes then pushing again.

“I don’t think there’s internal damage, just severe bruising, but to be on the safe side I’m sending you for a scan, that should prove it one way or the other.” Pulling a small pen torch from his breast pocket he shined it first in Sherlock’s open eye, and then attempted the same with the swollen one, carefully holding the puffy lid out of the way.  “No obvious signs of concussion, pupils reacting normally,” he spoke to himself as he added to his notes.  His hands moved next to push at his patients’ bloodied nose.

Although it was sore Sherlock gritted his teeth, determined not to let him know how much it hurt, and tried to glare.  He failed miserably – it was hard to glare effectively with only one visible eye.

The doctor looked down at him and smiled benignly. “You’ll be pleased to know that your nose isn’t broken – although it may feel like it at the moment.  We’ll get you cleaned up in a minute, I’d advise against trying to sniff or blow your nose for a couple of days, just give the blood vessels a chance to heal. Now, I’ll ask again, are these beating related?”

Greg pulled out his warrant card and showed the doctor. “We have it in hand; if you give your report to my Sergeant we’ll take it from here.”

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

John knew he was speaking, he just didn’t know what he was saying!  His eyes cracked open slightly and he peered up at the two nurses by his bedside. They frowned at him simultaneously and for one horrible moment he was sure they were going to beat him up with their eyebrows.  He closed his eyes again, he bloody hated concussion! It was going to be a while before the confusion disappeared and rational thought returned.

Licking his lips he tried again. “Water?”

A giggle somewhere off to his left caught his attention.

“Is that what you were trying to say just now?” the voice sounded very young, and John wondered if he was dreaming. Then he wondered if he should try again, but decided it was too much effort.

“Here you are Mr Watson.” It was that young voice again, and this time it was accompanied by a straw being pushed into the corner of his mouth. Instinctively he sucked and was rewarded with cool refreshing water. Too soon it was taken away from him, but the voice was back again. “Not too much now, you need to pace yourself.”

“It’s not K” Realisation dawned and his eyes opened suddenly only to screw up against the dizziness that assailed him. The owner of the voice was standing close beside his bed now and his hand shot out to grab her arm.

“No,” she said gently “I’m not Kay.  Is that your wife?”

“Sick!”

“Kay is sick?” she sounded confused now.

“What? No!” his other hand scrabbled at the covers as he tried to pull himself up and out of bed. Suddenly the spinning stopped but it was too late, he could taste the bile at the back of his throat. Projectile vomit flew across the room and John felt as if he was being ripped apart as his cracked rib protested while his body went into spasm and his stomach heaved again. At the third attempt he was completely empty – there was nothing left to bring up. He flopped back heavily against the pillows, sweating and trying to catch his breath.  His hand was still around the nurse’s arm.  Taking care not to hurt him she prised his fingers away and started to peel the soiled covers off the bed. 

Lifting his hand to cover his face John just lay there mortified. “I am so sorry!” he said, trying to ignore the acid burn in his throat, “Please, I’m so sorry!”

She stopped what she was doing and moved his hand away from his face, wrapping her fingers around his and patting the back of his hand with her free one.

“Now Mr Watson, John, it’s not your fault.  You have concussion.  Sickness is quite a common after- effect of a blow to the head such as you have had.” She pushed his hair from his forehead, and as he opened his eyes she smiled down at him. “Now you just relax there, and we’ll get you cleaned up, then we’ll find out if anyone has contacted your wife.”

“Wife?”  all John’s strength had left him, and he could barely concentrate.

“Your girlfriend then?”

But John no longer heard her, his eyes had closed and he had drifted, not into a peaceful sleep, more a lapse of consciousness.  Working quickly the nurse with the nice voice and her silent companion carefully stripped John and the bed, changing both and dumping the soiled linen into a trolley. 

A cleaner arrived to take care of the mess on the floor as they wheeled the trolley out of the room.  Sherlock and Lestrade, walking slowly (in deference to Sherlocks badly bruised abdomen) towards them slowed further and stood to one side to let them through.

“We’re looking for room 17.” Lestrade said as the two women drew level with them.

“Oh, you are friends of Mr Watson?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and bit down a pithy comment, he was still mindful of the Detective Inspector’s threat. Greg’s lips twitched.

“Actually he’s a doctor – Doctor Watson.”

“Do you know his wife? Or is it his girlfriend? He’s been asking for her.”

“Er….no wife.” Greg looked mystified, turning to Sherlock.

“No girlfriend either.” Sherlock eyed the foul smelling linen basket with distaste.  The nurse following his gaze grimaced apologetically.

“I’m afraid Mr….I mean, **_Doctor_** Watson was quite poorly.  The cleaner is just making the room presentable now.”  She pointed over her shoulder to room 17 before looking up at the man before her. “Are you Kay?”

“Do I look like a Kay?” this time he didn’t suppress the impatient edge to his tongue “John doesn’t have a wife or a girlfriend at present and no, we are most decidedly not a couple!”

Greg sniggered; he was far more used to those words coming from John’s mouth. Sherlock glared.

“Who exactly did he ask for?”

Sliding the trolley towards her colleague and motioning her to continue down the corridor the young nurse thought for a moment, then her eyes widened as she remembered exactly what she had heard.

“Of course.  He didn’t say **_you’re_** not Kay, he said **_it’s_** not Kay. I suppose that makes a difference.”

“Of course it does!” despite his sore stomach he swept past and hurried towards the room, almost tripping over the cleaner as she left.

John’s room smelled quite strongly of disinfectant.  By the time Greg had caught up with him Sherlock was standing by John’s bedside looking down at the pale figure lying so still on the freshly made bed.

“John?”  Sherlock made absolutely no concessions to the fact that John was apparently lying unconscious, he gave no indications of the concern he felt. “John!”

“Leave him Sherlock.”

“No.” it was faint, but unmistakably John’s voice. “Is okay.”

“Who did it John?” Sherlock leaned closer to hear the reply, but instead John’s eyes flickered open and they stared up into the younger man’s face.

“Jesus Sherlock, you look rough! You alright?”

“Ever the doctor eh John?”

“Didn’t answer my question though, did you?”  His voice was still rough, his throat dry and burned from vomiting. “Drink?”

Greg, coming to stand on the other side of the bed found the glass with the straw. He picked it up and offered it to the man in the bed.

“Here” he said, putting the straw to John’s lips.

Drinking more slowly this time he let his eyes wander around the room, and when he was finished he tried to push himself more upright in the bed.  Seeing him struggle Greg quickly replaced the glass on the bedside table and eased him forwards, motioning to Sherlock to prop the pillows behind him.  As he did so he noticed the multitude of bruises on his back displayed through the open back of the hospital gown.

With a grateful smile the patient settled back and eyed his flatmate’s bruised and swollen face. “So what happened?”

“Disagreement with your friend the boxer – you?”

“Some of his friends I think, four of them.”

Sherlock picked up the clipboard that hung on the end of John’s bed and stared at it.  “How on earth are you supposed to understand what’s written here, it’s barely legible.”

“ _You’re_ not!” John replied, holding his hand out to take the board and sheets from him. Scanning the sheets he whistled through his teeth. “Bloody hell  I’ve just cost the NHS a small fortune – MRI scans, blood tests, liver and renal function tests – and all fast tracked.” He looked up at his friends  “someone was worried….” His attention returned to the charts. “Says here I was out cold when they brought me in and I remained unconscious for more than an hour – not good then. They’ll probably want to keep me in overnight.”

“At the very least.” Sally Donovan stood in the doorway and looked at John “At least they left your face alone.”

“Yeah but they tried to kick my head in and stomped all over my back by the feel of it – not sure I actually came off better here.” He flicked a glance back at Sherlock. “Also not sure I’ve been told the whole story with our resident genius….?”

“Bruised abdomen – also required a very expensive MRI scan…” Greg filled in the gaps.

“Figures.”

Sally cleared her throat and looked at Lestrade.  “Do you need me here?”

“Got a date?” Sherlock sneered

“No, actually I’ve got better things to do than look after you children!”

“No, you can go” Greg stepped in before the insults got out of hand.

Sherlock had already turned his back on her and was looking at with interest at the wall above the head of Johns’ bed. He stayed like that until he heard the door close then flopped into the uncomfortable chair beside the bed.

“What did you remember?”

Blue eyes met grey.

“Who says I remembered anything?”

“The nurse, that’s who.” Greg leaned against the bed. “She thought you were asking for your wife or girlfriend.” He chuckled. “then she thought lanky here was Kay!”

“Kay? Who’s Kay?”

“Shut up Lestrade!” ignoring the detectives guffaws Sherlock added “apparently you said ‘it’s not Kay’…”

“Oh…”

“Well?”

“Well what?  So I said it’s not Kay – who’s Kay?”

“Had hoped you’d tell me that.” Sherlock huffed. “Thought maybe you’d remembered who the K was that our rather persistent burglars are looking for.”

“Ah, that K. No I…. actually….um…..look, this probably sounds silly, but maybe the name just sounds like it begins with a K?”

“You mean it could…”

“I don’t really know what I mean at the moment.” John sighed tiredly. “Just, well, I woke up thinking it might not be that straightforward.”

“But that still doesn’t explain why I can’t remember a criminal we’ve presumably helped put away, or chased out of the country, whose name sounds like it begins with K!” Frustration coloured Sherlocks words.

“Maybe you forgot?” Lestrade offered.

“What, me? Forget? I don’t forget anything, I simply delete unimportant…..” he stopped suddenly and looked at John. “That’s what I’ve done, I’ve deleted it!  It must have been a case of little importance.”

“But you won’t take unimportant cases.” Lestrade frowned.

“He will if he gets really bored.”

 “John you’re brilliant. Lestrade I need you to get me home now!  John I need you out of here tomorrow morning!”

“Yes, but….”

“I don’t know if they’ll…..”

“John, they must let you out!  You know how lost I am without my blogger!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: St Thomas’s Hospital is generally known as Tommy’s to most people that work in or have contact with it on a day to day basis, which Scotland Yard would do.


	6. Chapter 6

It was late the next morning before John was finally discharged from the hospital – he was certain Mycroft had a hand in it too, as the doctor – who originally had been adamant that John needed bed rest, peace and quiet – agreed to let him leave provided he did nothing strenuous until the external bruising healed.  Mentally crossing his fingers behind his back the sandy haired doctor promised he would do nothing more taxing that sit and sip tea.

Mycroft helpfully sent a car (and Anthea) partly to make sure he got home in safety, partly to reassure the hospital staff.  John himself though was less reassured when, on checking his personal belongings, he discovered his phone was missing. Memory was slow in coming back, but he was sure he’d had it with him when he left home yesterday.  Frustrated with the loss of both memory and means of communications he sat in the car and fumed silently all the way from Westminster Bridge Road to Baker Street.

Sherlock squinted up from the pile of papers in front of him as John hobbled through the door, leaning heavily on his cane, Anthea following like a mother hen behind him.

“What’s wrong?” even with only one fully functioning eye the consulting detective could see that all was not well with his flatmate, and that it had nothing to do with the level of pain climbing the stairs had caused.

John just shook his head and sunk down into his chair.  Sherlock looked at Anthea.

“What have you done to him?”

She didn’t answer, just looked steadily at him as if at some peculiar new species of talking monkey.

“Leave it Sherlock, it’s not her fault.”

He turned and frowned at John.

“What isn’t?”

“My phone” John sighed heavily “it’s missing.”

Looking up from her Blackberry Anthea said “We are arranging for a new one to be brought round to you.”

“But….”

“He doesn’t need Mycroft’s charity – if he needs a new phone we’ll make sure….”

“No, that…. No! I don’t want a new phone, either from you Sherlock or from Mycroft!  Thank you, Anthea. Just…” he shook his head “just, thanks, you know, for the escort home and everything, but I don’t need Mycroft to sort the phone thing…..”

The brunette smiled her usual vacuous smile and left. 

“Your phone….”

“I had it yesterday…..”

“I know John, you texted me when you left Kallie.”

“Yeah, I remember now......”

“So?” Sherlock frowned. “It’s just a phone John.”

“No, Sherlock, it’s not just a phone!  It’s…” he took a deep breath, trying to calm the irrational anger he felt. “I’m sorry – it’s just….it’s the phone Harry gave me.”

“I didn’t think you were that sentimental about your sister.”

“No, neither did I!” a small chuckle escaped him “I’ll worry about it later though. Right now I could murder a cuppa!”

Sherlock watched as John limped slowly to the kitchen, wondering how long it would be before he would be fit enough to work on the case.

“I’m fit enough now, Sherlock!” John had read his mind, and was grinning to himself as he imagined the look of shock on the genius’s face.  He pottered around, filling the kettle, pulling mugs out of the cupboard (and checking that there were _clean_ ), soothed by the rhythms of doing normal things.

Tea made, he cautiously picked up both mugs in one hand and made his way back to the living room, carefully placing the mugs on the desk, separating the handles and handing one to Sherlock before picking up his own and shuffling back to his chair.

Taking a sip of the hot strong brew he sighed, closing his eyes and breathing in the homely aroma of the beverage.

“Now you see why I hate hospitals.”

John opened one eye at this statement and let it lazily stare at his friend.  Sherlock was staring back, also one-eyed.  The humour of it wasn’t lost on him, but he just continued to look at John.

“They serve appalling tea!”

“Yes…..yes they do.” John took another sip. “Been thinking….”

“Careful!”

“Funny Sherlock. Like I said, I’ve been thinking about this mysterious ‘K’.” he shifted slightly in his chair trying to get comfortable “We aren’t going to find him in the files from the Yard – you have asked Greg to check their database?”

“Of course.”

“So tell me, how easy is it for you to ‘undelete’ information from your infamous ‘hard-drive’?”

Sherlock stared into the distance, his brain processing the possibilities. “John, you are brilliant!”

“Hmm, I thought so too.” 

The comment was ignored as Sherlock put his drink on the table beside him and drew his feet up onto the edge of his chair, resting his elbows on his knees and his lips against his fingertips.

“Think!” he said suddenly – more to himself than to John, “Apart from Katerinochkin we haven’t investigated any cases, not even insignificant ones, involving villains whose names begin with K”

“She’s out of the picture anyway – and even if she wasn’t she always used Russian muscle for the important jobs, not second rate ex-boxers.”

“So your other thought – a name that sounds as if it should begin with K” his eyes flicked towards the other man “Any ideas?”

“Just one….”

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

It took them four hours.  Four painstaking hours of working through Sherlocks magnificent hard-drive and Johns no less magnificent handwritten notes, but they found him.  The two men sat frozen, staring at each other, unable to believe the evidence before them. 

And it was into this charged atmosphere that Lestrade came bounding like an excited puppy.

“I think I might……” he noticed the expressions on the faces of the two men and his voice faltered. “What? What’s happened?”

Sherlock looked away from his flatmate and up at the police officer.

“You’ve found something?” he asked sharply

“Yeah, I think so,” Lestrade looked and sounded dazed by the tension in the room. He sat on the couch, leaning forward, his eyes flicking between the two men. “I was thinking about you and those unimportant cases. Process of elimination really – you’ve accepted no simple cases from me and let’s face it, no case Mycroft would bring you could ever be called unimportant, so I looked further afield.”

“Oh for goodness sake, get on with it!”

“Sherlock” Johns voice was gently chiding. Greg smiled his thanks and let out a huffed breath.

“I sent out a national request for information on any cases that you had accepted from other police forces across the UK, you’re quite a busy little bee aren’t you?”

“No, just easily bored!”

“Anyway, we had some interesting responses – one being from Essex – Tilbury Docks…” he looked expectantly at Sherlock, and was rewarded with a grin.

“We’ll make a great investigator of you yet!” the younger man said leaping to his feet and pacing the floor.  “John and I had just come to the same conclusion – that rather uninteresting little gang of designer clothing smugglers.”

“Yeah, that’s the one I found – some bloke called..” he pulled out his notebook “Pierce Akaid, wanted for bringing fake designer goods into the country and passing them off as the genuine article – makes a fortune with it too!”

“But we passed his details and where to find him to both the Essex police and the Port of Tilbury Constabulary” John frowned up at Sherlock “Surely they must have arrested him?”

“Well apparently not” Greg flopped back against the couch in disgust “They took so long deciding how to do it that when they got to his house he’d gone!”

“What about the rest of his gang?”

“Oh they got them, nicked ‘em red handed with the latest consignment of Louboutins and Jimmy Choos” he looked at the twin blank looks he was receiving and grinned “Over-the-top expensive designer shoes.  Probably made for pennies in some far away sweat shop but sold for hundreds of pounds here.”

John smirked “And who gave you a lesson in ladies fashion footwear then?”

“Sally!  Turns out she covets a particularly hideous looking pair of purple Louboutins that she saw in a magazine once – just couldn’t afford the nearly 700 quid price tag!”

John’s jaw dropped, Sherlock just sneered disdainfully and muttered about more money than sense which nearly made the other two men choke on their laughter. He frowned.

“Pot and kettle Sherlock” John laughed, looking pointedly at his friends immaculately tailored clothing. “Have you seen the price tags on your suits and handmade shoes?”

“Yes, but they’re handmade – not off the shelf!”

“Snob!”

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It had been a long day for all of them, and unusually John decided to forego dinner and retire to bed as soon as Greg left.

“This isn’t going away anytime soon Sherlock; we might as well get a good night’s rest”

“You go, I don’t need to…”

“Yes, you do.  Sherlock you’ve been beaten up, I’ll bet you didn’t sleep last night, you didn’t eat because there was no one here to make sure you did…”

“You’ve hardly eaten today” Sherlock stared at him sullenly.

“I still have the lingering after effects of concussion – which includes feeling sick every time I eat.  You on the other hand should be able to manage light food despite the bruising,” he looked pointedly at his friend “and you need to rest!”

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. John rolled his eyes. He was about to climb the stairs when there was the familiar buzz of a text being received on Sherlocks phone, he paused and watched as the younger man pulled the phone from his pocket and flicked his thumb across the screen. Something about his expression piqued John’s interest.

“What is it?”

Sherlock silently handed the phone over.

_‘Mr Holmes – do you recognise this number?’_

John stared first at the words, and then at the sender ID – it had been sent from his phone! Numbly he handed it back.

_‘Yes – who is this? – SH’_

They waited. Within minutes the phone rang.  Warily he answered the call, holding the phone in front of him so that John could hear both sides of the conversation.

“Hello?”

“Mr Holmes?” it was a young female voice, a familiar voice, and both men relaxed. “Mr Holmes it’s Kallie!”

“Kallie, what are you doing with John’s phone?”

There was a sound rather like a weak laugh, then “I thought it was Doctor John’s – I’ve seen that inscription on the back before.  Some kid came into the exchange trying to sell it”

“How much did you pay him for it?” John asked

“Oh hi doc,” again that light laugh “Nothing – I just told him I knew the owner and that if he didn’t hand it over I’d speak to a few of the people the owner had helped.  He soon changed his mind about selling – gave it over as willing as you please! So I bought him a cup of tea and a sandwich, just like you always did for me.” There was a pause then “Couldn’t figure how you’d managed to lose it though – is everything okay?”

“Yeah – wrong side of the bad guys, remember?” John replied wryly.

“Not again!” they could almost hear the rolling eyes. “Do you want me to bring it round?”

John opened his mouth to answer but the look on Sherlock’s face made him pause.

“No Kallie, there is the possibility that they’re watching the flat – we don’t want you getting caught up in this.  Can you take it to John-Joseph?  We will pick it up from there.”

“Will do!” she laughed and said goodbye, hanging up almost immediately.

The two friends stood and looked at each other for a moment, then John ran a hand across his face and into his hair.

“Tomorrow Sherlock, we’ll pick it up tomorrow.  For now I just need to sleep.”

Sherlock nodded and watched as the doctor turned to slowly walk up the stairs.  As he moved to return to his chair John’s voice floated down the stairs to him.

“And you need to sleep too!”


	7. Chapter 7

Their plans to recover John’s phone from JJ’s café were put on hold the next morning. Sherlocks’ face was now an interesting variety of colours – predominantly shades of purple and yellow – and John’s limp was joined by a ramrod stiff back that pained him every time he tried to bend, his bruises being equally as interesting in their dark rainbow hues. 

It was not however, any consideration of their rather odd looks that had kept them at home. In the first instance it was the problem of John who, having taken himself off to bed found that every bruise and boot mark screamed in protest the next morning when he tried to move. His yelp of surprised pain brought Sherlock running up to his room and as he burst through the bedroom door and skidded to a halt the two men just looked at each other.

For a full second the silence hung between them, and then John said “Your face!”

Sherlock rolled his eye. “Hmm – I know”

Sherlock would later claim that John giggled first, while John blamed Sherlock, saying that making him giggle was not conducive to easing the pain in his back and ribs.

Lestrade provided the second reason for them to stay in the Baker Street flat. He had discovered them a short while later, Sherlock leaning against the wall trying to catch his breath and stifle the grin that threatened to split his face, John lying helplessly in his bed holding his ribs and still giggling like a schoolgirl.

“I…er…are you guys okay?” he looked uncomfortable, standing in John’s bedroom. John groaned, Sherlock straightened himself up.

“What do you want, Lestrade?” it was hard to sound haughty when the echoes of the giggles were still there in your voice.

John cleared his throat and took a deep breath, looking pointedly at the manila files in the older man’s hand.

“Found some more information Greg?”

Before he could answer Sherlock grasped him by the shoulders and spun him round, pushing him out of the door.

“Downstairs, Lestrade.” He glanced at John. “Are you okay or do you need a hand?”

John flushed, Greg paused mid step, curious to hear the answer.

“What? No, Sherlock, thank you. I’m perfectly capable of getting myself out of bed.” The flush deepened but Sherlock ignored it, following the police officer out of the room.

“And your earlier shrieks of agony disproved that statement”

“I didn’t shriek!” John yelled at the now closed door as he eased himself out of bed.

It was another ten minutes before John joined the two men in the living room. A mug of tea and a plate of toast stood waiting for him on the table beside his chair.

“What’ve you got?” Lowering himself stiffly into the chair he glanced at the pile of papers balanced precariously across Sherlocks knees. “Looks like a lot more information than we had to start with on the Akaid case”

“I had the full case notes, including everything that happened after you passed the information to them, shipped up from the joint operational team.” Greg waved in the direction of the papers “Those are copies. I would have brought the originals, but as they’ve made two attempts at finding out what you know, I wasn’t about to make it third time lucky for them.”

Chewing thoughtfully on a piece of toast John reached across and picked up a couple of the report sheets.

“You’re leaving these with us?”

“Yeah why?

John’s glance slid over to his flatmate.

“Don’t know about you Sherlock, but I think a day studying these reports and refreshing our memories of this gang would probably be more productive that if we venture out blindly, trying to track these guys down with little to go on.”

To his surprise Sherlock nodded.

“Mycroft has people making enquiries around the local boxing clubs for the ex-boxer, and I’ve given him descriptions of the other two thugs he brought with him, so we may have more to work with if his people do their jobs properly.” On the last words he glared at Lestrade.

“It wasn’t my fault that bloke nearly knocked me off my feet as he flew out of the door!  I was worried about you Sherlock, although God knows why – I heard that scream and thought they were murdering you!”

“Scream?” John’s eyes widened and he stared pointedly at his flatmate. “Really, Sherlock? You?”

“No John, not me” Sherlock looked affronted. He waved a hand in the direction of the kitchen. “One of them was foolish enough to open the fridge, was it my fault the eyes and tongues frightened him? It was he who screamed Lestrade, not me!”

“Well how was I to know?”  Greg could barely speak for laughing at the younger man.  “All I heard as I pulled up outside was the scream…”

“Well you should have known…”

“I’m sorry?  Your flatmate here was attacked in the street, and less than a week before had been attacked in this very flat, and you’re saying I should have known it wasn’t you?”  Greg shook his head. “And who keeps eyes and tongues in their fridge…..? Yeah, well, let’s just say most people keep food in their fridge.”

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Theydon Bois was better known for its peaceful old world village charm and its proximity to the ancient and beautiful Epping Forest than for the dark and unsavoury underworld of smuggling, and yet in the heart of this tranquil countryside resided a man who was single-handedly trying to undermine the national economy and increase his already enormous wealth at the expense of the hard-working taxpayers.

Pierce Akaid, now known to his new neighbours as Mr Peter Carson, sat staring pensively out over the well groomed lawn that led down to the edge of the golf course.  He wasn’t considering his newly acquired membership of the club, or the fact that the local parish council had asked him to attend their monthly Bridge night.  His thoughts strayed not to his veneer of respectability, enhanced by his background story of ‘old money’ looking for a new home.  The fawning middle class inhabitants of his chosen locality saw only what they wanted to see, money and status, and that suited him fine.

What suited him less was the way that bloody snooping consulting detective and his little shadow managed to confound all his attempts to find out exactly how much they know about him and his operation.  A small frown creased his brow as he mentally reviewed the information brought back to him by the boxer – the detective keeps body parts in his fridge?  Surely that’s illegal? And the little shadow, the doctor, even as they tried to kick him to death refused to give up any information. Maybe there was no information. The thought struck him that all this had been pointless because there was nothing to find, nothing to learn! His hand reached out for his mobile, and he punched in a familiar number.

It was answered at the third ring.

“ _Yeah?”_

“William.”

“ _Mr Akaid_ …”

“Carson!  Remember to call me Mr Carson, William, if you wish to continue working for me. Now William, we may have to change tactics a little.  Are you still watching Holmes and his little friend?”

“ _The doctor’s home and neither of them have moved from the flat since he got back.  Some posh girlfriend brought him home, left soon after. I think that friend of theirs from the Yard called to see them, he was leaving just as my guy turned up, early this morning_.”

“Just a visit?”

“ _Think so…_ ” there was a pause. “ _He wasn’t in a squad car…_ ”

“Means nothing. Keep watching, let me know what they do but **_do nothing_** until I tell you – understood?”

“ _Yes Mr Ak….Mr Carson_.”

Abruptly the line went dead, and Akaid returned to his contemplation of the garden.  He had his first consignment of the new goods arriving in Felixstowe within the week; he needed to be sure he was not on the police radar. He woke his mobile up for a second time, and punched in another even more familiar number, a harsh expression settling over his face.

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Dusk was settling over the east end of London as a small wiry figure slipped out of the back entrance of a run-down boxing club and made his way down the darkening streets to his favourite pub.  As he turned a corner there was a large black car waiting for him, a well-dressed man standing quietly beside it. The ex-boxer slowed to a halt, swallowed, and turned to retrace his steps. A second man stepped out of the shadows behind him.

“William Phillips?”

Bill Phillips looked from one to the other, nodding.

“Get in the car, Mr Phillips”

He considered his options.  Nothing looked particularly good at the moment – they were both taller than him, well-built and if the bulges in their suit jackets were anything to go by, they were both armed. He tried for nonchalance, shrugging and stepping towards the door being held open for him. One man got in beside him, the other into the driving seat.  As they drove he watched the changing scenery.

“Where are we going?”

Silence.

Phillips glanced at the door handle, wondering what his chances were of jumping out as the car sped along. He felt the heat of his back-seat companions’ gaze and turned around to look at him. The silent man shook his head, his eyes flicking to the door lock. Phillips looked too – automatic locks. He sighed inwardly and slumped back against the leather seat.

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A tap on the door heralded the appearance of Mrs Hudson, and both men looked up as she walked into the living room.  Her sharp birdlike eyes took in the papers strewn across the floor and on every conceivable surface. Sherlock was sitting in the middle of the floor, surrounded by police reports, while John was lying face down on the couch, reading the HM Revenue and Customs papers and trying to make connections with the known European gangs.

Looking at the expectant expressions on the faces of her tenants she put a hand into her cardigan pocket.

“I’ve just been to see Mrs Turner.” She announced. “And on my way back I was almost knocked off my feet by a scruffy young man!  Dirty he was, smelled a bit too!”

Both men waited, knowing there would be more to her story.

“When I got back into my flat, I found this in my pocket.” And she pulled a tatty, folded piece of paper from her pocket and held it towards the man on the floor. “It’s addressed ‘To Mr Holmes’, so I thought I’d better bring it straight up.”  As Sherlock leapt to his feet to snatch the message from her hand she looked down, frowning at John.

“John, dear, is it good for you to lay and read in that awkward position?”

John smiled fondly back at her. “Probably not Mrs H, but it’s easier on my back at the moment.”

“Oh you poor dear!  Would you like some arnica to rub on it, I’m sure Sherlock….”

“No!” both men spoke together, John in alarm, Sherlock on a choked laugh.

“Sorry Mrs Hudson, it’s just….well I don’t think arnica would touch the bruising,” John cheeks were reddened and he looked a bit flustered “and…..” he glanced helplessly at his flatmate who stared back and grinned, as if waiting to see how the doctor would get out of this highly amusing situation. John frowned.   He would get Sherlock back for the unholy glee he could see shining in his eye! He swallowed, “and I’m not sure my back could actually stand having anything rubbed into it at the moment.  Maybe though Sherlock would like some for his face?”

“Oh!  Is it wise to put it on such delicate skin?”  Mrs Hudson was, of course, referring to the delicate skin around Sherlock’s eye, but John gave a shout of laughter as the younger man spluttered indignantly.

“My skin is not delicate!”

John put his head down as if studying the papers in front of him.

“Like a baby’s bottom.” He said softly.

Mrs Hudson tittered.

It was Sherlock’s turn to flush as he opened the grubby note.

“He was a redhead, the youth that ran into you.” It was a statement, not a question.  Mrs Hudson nodded. “That will be all Mrs Hudson.”

“Sherlock!”

“No, that’s alright John dear, it’s not as if I take any notice of him anyway. Do you boys want a cuppa?”

Sherlock ignored the question, but John accepted gratefully. As she bustled away to the kitchen he eased himself up off the couch and picked his way across to where Sherlock was scanning the note.

“Frankie – one of the Network.”

“News?”

“Only that there is no news, John. No-one knows the ex-boxer, he doesn’t frequent any of the areas known best to Frankie or his friends.  Another dead end.”

John shrugged, then winced as the muscles in his back complained. “Maybe Mycroft will have more luck?”

Sherlock nodded. “Maybe.”

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The Limehouse Cut, on the Lea Navigation Canal was not really a popular area for holidaymakers and tourists, so Sarah Meechin found it the ideal place to live on her narrowboat, and make her craft gifts.  She had a loose contract with a stall out at Camden Lock, and it was a pleasant and easy cycle ride from home to make her deliveries. 

Sarah had left a bit later than usual for her return journey that night, so it was dark when she unlocked the door to her boat. As she ducked into the cabin she thought she heard a splash, and she popped back up to see what had happened. It was hardly pitch black, but she could see nothing, and the only sounds to be heard were the ducks and drakes settling down for the evening. Shaking her head she continued into her kitchen diner, locking her doors and closing out the outside world.


	8. Chapter 8

Anyone who noticed the three people sitting at the table in John-Joseph’s café would have assumed they were just friends chatting over a morning beverage.  The woman – young girl really – had taken a break from her new job with her boss’ blessing, she wanted to meet with the older of the two men.  The younger man watched how she solicitously hovered over their companion, making sure he was seated comfortably and carrying his mug of coffee to the table, He hid a smile.

“I left the phone here for you Doc, but when John-Joseph said you hadn’t called for it…well I was worried!”

John smiled. “Sorry Kallie. It just proved a bit too much yesterday”

The young girl made sympathetic noises and patted the doctor’s hand understandingly. Sherlock coughed. John shot him a look that dared him to say anything.

“And what about you Mr Holmes?  You don’t look none too clever either.” Kallie’s eyes moved over the bruising. “Same gang?”

Sherlock nodded. “Same gang, different thugs.”

“What can we do?” her eyes took in the man behind the counter who nodded in agreement, and John recalled the ‘look after our own’ comment he’d made when last they met.

The early morning office workers were long gone to their glass and steel cathedrals, and it was too early for the passing tourist trade, so JJ joined them, bringing a second round of drinks to the table. 

“There must be something the Network can do to help?”

“We’ve tried that route,” Sherlock explained, “I think the only thing we can ask is that you stay alert, if you see the boxer let us know…”

“And remember, if they can do this to us, they’ll not hesitate to try to take you out of the picture, so stay away from them” as he spoke John looked pointedly at Kallie.

The young girl looked back at him.  She must have seen something in his face, some hint of the concern he felt, and she took hold of John’s hand, looking earnestly back at him as she promised to be careful. Hastily swallowing the last of her drink she waved goodbye and scooted back to work.

As she slipped out the door a tall, grey-haired man entered, holding the door to allow her to pass.  

“Don’t either of you ever answer your phones?”

“Greg.” John waved to the recently vacated chair. “Coffee?”

Lestrade glanced warily at Sherlock, who smirked back at him.

“I won’t make you drop it in your lap, if that’s what you’re worried about Inspector.”

John-Joseph slipped away from them and moved back behind the counter.

“Make that a large double strength Cappuccino for Mr Lestrade please, JJ.”

“Thanks John.” He looked at the battered investigators. “Well?  Phones?”

John waggled his between thumb and forefinger. “Just got it back,” he explained, “battery’s dead!”

Greg nodded and looked at Sherlock, who was staring at his own mobile as if it was an alien life form.

“It would appear that my phone is currently set on ‘silent’!” he looked at his flatmate who stared back with a frown, then with a silent ‘oh!’ and a lightening of his features he smiled.

“Sorry Sherlock, I put it on silent last night,” he confessed. “I thought you could do with some undisturbed sleep – y’know, that beating catching up on you and all that.  And you must have been tired,” he added as Sherlock huffed indignantly, “because you’ve only just noticed it.”

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t do it again!” Sherlock paid for the drinks as JJ delivered Lestrade’s coffee.

John didn’t bother answering that one, preferring instead to look expectantly at the Detective Inspector.

“We’ve found a body.”

“And you wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t connected with Akaid.” Sherlock stated quietly. “Who?”

“If that picture you gave me was accurate then I think we’ve just found the boxer.”

Both Sherlock and John sat up straighter, their attention on the older man as he sipped his drink appreciatively, before continuing

“He was found floating in Limehouse Cut by a lady living on a boat.  She thought she heard something go into the water last night, but as it was dark, and there were no other sounds or splashes, she assumed it was her imagination.”

“And where is the body now?”

“I requested that it be taken to St Bart’s…”

“I need to see that body, and then I must interview the woman from the boat!” Sherlock leapt to his feet and would have dashed out of the door if Lestrade hadn’t put a restraining hand on his arm.  The younger man stared down at him, surprised.

“What?” he asked

“Sherlock, sit down a minute.  The corpse is going nowhere, and before we leave here I have a question I need to ask” Greg looked uncomfortable as Sherlock continued to stare down at him, but he would not be cowed. He steadily returned the stare until the other man resumed his seat.

“What’s the problem, Greg?”

Lestrade spared a scant glance for John before turning back to look Sherlock in the eye.

“You said your brother was looking for this bloke. Would Mycroft have disposed of him once he was found?”

“What do you mean, disposed of?”

“You’re saying it was no accident, obviously” John stated. “You think Mycroft had him killed?”

Greg flushed. Sherlock laughed harshly.

“Detective Inspector, I can assure you if Mycroft had wanted to ‘dispose’ of the boxer you would not have found his body!” he stared defiantly at the police officer.

“Not good Sherlock.” John spoke half under his breath.

“Oh really John! Why on earth would Mycroft kill the man – we needed to get as much information from him as possible!”

“Look Sherlock, you have to understand – I have to ask these questions.” He picked up his cup and drained the last of his cappuccino. “We all know how much your brother….”

“…..worries about you.” John finished for him, easing himself to his feet and tentatively stretching his back. Seeing the sneer forming on Sherlock’s face he changed the subject.  “We’ll follow you….”

“No.” Greg had also risen and was headed towards the door.  “I’ve brought an unmarked car. You can travel with me, it’ll save time.”

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The body was unmistakably that of William – Bill the Bruiser – Phillips.  Molly had already stripped and washed the body, collecting samples of the aquatic plants that had insinuated their way under his clothing, uncovering the likely cause of death in the process. Rolling the body onto its side she pointed to a stab wound, on the left hand side between the third and fourth ribs.

“Whoever did it stabbed him with a long thin blade.” She told the consulting detective as he studied the wound through his magnifying glass.  “The wound is angled upwards, pierced the heart, he was dead before he hit the water.”

“You’re sure?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock looked up from his examination of the body.  “Of course she’s sure Lestrade – you’ve only to look closely at the injury sustained to see that it was a professional killing!”

Molly glowed; she could almost forgive his disparaging words from earlier in the week. She continued to hold the body while Sherlock poked and prodded around the wound.

“I’d say wherever he was killed would be significantly bloody.  They obviously removed the blade as soon as the deed was done..” he motioned to John to look.  The doctor moved forward, bending to look at the blue-tinged skin.

“I agree,” John straightened up and stepped away from the mortuary table. “You can tell by the lack of bruising.”

Greg nodded.  “And his assailants?”

“Unless they were wearing plastic overalls their clothes will definitely bear some kind of blood-spatter”

“Right, come on Lestrade!” Sherlock suddenly lost interest in the body on the slab and turned away, striding towards the door.

“Where to?” Greg hurried after him; John however remained where he was, staring at the floor.

“To see the witness!” Sherlock’s voice floated back as the mortuary door closed.

Molly looked at John. He smiled mischievously.

“What?” she whispered. He held a finger to his lips and waited.

The door opened again and Sherlocks head appeared.

“Problem?”

“No, I just wondered how long it would take you to remember I can’t run after you at the moment!”

Molly sniggered. Sherlock stepped through the door and held it open for his flatmate.

“See you Molly!” John grinned and waved as he left.

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“Now look, Sherlock, I don’t want you frightening the witness!” Greg negotiated the Aldgate roundabout, pointing his BMW 3 series down Commercial Road. He glanced across at Sherlock’s face “And just remember that bruising makes you look mean, and that’s before you open your mouth to say nasty things so just, well, don’t!  Get it?”

Sherlock continued to stare out of the window, totally ignoring the older man. 

Swinging the car into a parking space beside the moored narrowboat, Greg had barely stopped the engine before Sherlock leapt out of the door and was striding around the tow path, looking at the ground, the surrounding shrubbery, and last of all the edge of the canal.

“He didn’t go in here.” He stated as John and Greg joined him.

“No, I would have seen him I think.” The voice was soft, feminine, and held residual traces of the tears she had shed on finding a dead body floating next to her home. She remained on her boat, and despite standing at a slightly lower level than the three men she was still almost eye-level with John, an unusually tall lady.

Sherlock swung around and turned his piercing gaze on her. He deduced from the tears that she’d been upset by finding the body, from the paint smudges on her well-worn jeans and small scratches on her hands that she was and artist who made hand-painted jewellery, and from the way she looked back at them that she would be more interested in Harry Watson than John. With a smirk he looked at his flatmate.

“Don’t waste your time, John.”

“What?  Wait, no Sherlock, just shut up!”

Greg rolled his eyes and stepped forward, showing his warrant card.

“Miss Sarah Meechin? We’d like to talk to you about…”

“You found the body, yes?” Interrupting the Detective, Sherlock jumped onto the boat and stood almost nose to nose with the witness. “But you heard him go into the water last night?”

“Oi, Sherlock………!” Greg fumed, but the younger man ignored him, his concentration on the woman standing in front of him.

Sarah stepped back. “I think so,” she chewed her lip and let her eyes wander to the far bank of the canal. “I heard a splash, I looked over the water but it was too dark. There had been a family of ducks nesting….”

“Yes, yes,” Waving away her explanation he moved across the stern of the boat and looked down into the water, “you thought it was waterfowl landing heavily.”

“Don’t be sarcastic” John tried to soften his friend’s words.

“No, you’re boyfriend’s right….”

“Not my boyfriend!”

Greg grinned.

“Oh,” for a moment she looked disconcerted. “You don’t look like a policeman!”

“I’m not.” John explained, “neither is he.  I’m a doctor, he’s a consulting detective.”

“You’re Doctor Watson! I thought your face looked familiar!” She exclaimed, “I’m such a big fan of your blog doctor…and Mr Holmes! Well, if you’re investigating then they’re bound to catch the criminals that did this!”

Sherlock smirked, John accepted the compliment and Greg’s grin disappeared.

“Can you take us over to the other bank?”

“Yes…..yes I suppose so,”

“Good.” Sherlock looked at her expectantly.

“Your friends too?”

Impatiently he beckoned the others aboard.  With the ease of familiarity Sarah started the engine, letting it tick over as she moved effortlessly along the gunnel to untie the mooring ropes fore and aft, then she gently eased the throttle  open and steered towards the opposite bank. 

Sarah, John and Greg waited as Sherlock moved, like a bloodhound, to and fro across the grass, up and down beside the canal. At one point they held their breath as he knelt down and leaned over the edge, his nose almost in the water!

“Aha!” he cried, leaping to his feet. “Here, Lestrade.  He went in here, rolled in judging by the merest trace of blood on the canal side here, and the dried blood that had pooled here on the grass.” As John, Greg, and a curious Sarah joined him he darted about, pointing out blood stains, skilfully drawing with words a picture of William Phillips’ last moments on dry land. He deduced that the ex-boxer had been stabbed in the shadows where the buildings met the grass, and he had most likely staggered, a dead man walking, and dropped where the blood stained the grass.

“He lay there long enough for the blood to pool, Lestrade. His assailants must have heard Miss Meechin return to her boat, and stayed out of sight.  They rushed to dispose of the body however, hence you heard the splash – amateurs!”  Then suddenly he was striding away. “Come along John!  Lestrade, you may want you forensic team to secure the area, it’s possible they’ll find more evidence – although I doubt it!”

John thanked the boat owner for her help and limped quickly after his friend, leaving a frustrated Lestrade staring after them and phoning for the scene of crime team.

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Mycroft had been contemplating lunch at the Diogenes Club, it had been a particularly trying morning. Not only had the ex-boxer turned up dead in a canal, thus depriving them of much needed information, but also he really was going to have to do something about the Bolivian ambassador.  The man was insufferable at the best of times, but now he threatened to overstep the mark with his endless demands. Yes, this called for a good meal, a glass or two of fine malt whisky, and an hour of peace and quiet.

Now that he had made up his mind he put his papers away, locking the draw and slipping the key into his waistcoat pocket.  He was about to ring for his driver when the office door opened and Anthea slipped quietly in, a sheaf of papers in her hand. He paused, one shapely eyebrow raised in enquiry.

“We have found the club where Phillips was living, Sir.” She handed over the papers. “It’s in Middleton Street, Bethnal Green.  What would you like me to do now?”

He glanced at the papers in his hand, and then back at her face.

“I think you had better give this information to Detective Inspector Lestrade.” He smiled. “And make sure we have people there to make sure no-one slips through the net!”

 


	9. Chapter 9

It looked like an ordinary container lorry, making its way across Europe with its cargo bound for England.  The driver was no different from all the other drivers heading towards Rotterdam container terminal, thinking more about how long it would be before he could make his delivery and go home, than about the road ahead. 

Swinging his vehicle into through the main entrance gate, he handed the cargo paperwork to the customs official. After a brief check to assure himself that the shipping documents were all in order, the officer directed him to a parking bay where a short time later the container was removed from the trailer, and lifted aboard the Container Ship John Dory.  The driver, his job done, swung his vehicle out of the dockyard and headed home.  Container BCA1887N, snuggly strapped against a thousand other containers, started on the last leg of its journey to Felixstowe and its final destination, Carson Importers Ltd.

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The Bethnal Green Gym and Boxing Club was surrounded by a mixture of police vehicles and unobtrusive looking black saloon cars. Mycroft’s men were there to ensure that no one slipped out unnoticed, while DI Lestrade’s team were methodically searching the building. 

Into this hive of activity swept the whirlwind that is Sherlock Holmes. Several officers groaned inwardly as he dashed through the building shouting for Lestrade. Following at a more conservative pace, John wandered through the door, nodding acknowledgement to several of the officers as he passed by, a small smile on his face as he recognised relief that the consulting detective had not arrived alone.  The smile faded though as he followed the sound of Sherlock’s voice, and found himself in a small room where his friend stood almost nose to nose with Sally Donovan.

“I said, you can’t go any further, Freak! This is a police investigation, and you weren’t invited!”

“And you idiots wouldn’t have even known about this place were it not for my brother...”

Sally glanced past Sherlock, and her face fell.

“That’s all we bloody need – Jiminy effing Cricket!”

“Who?” Sherlock glanced behind him and frowned, but John had instantly picked up on the pop culture reference.  His face hardened.

“You know, Sally, there are times when I put a lot of effort into preventing Sherlock from being too offensive when he speaks to you, and right now I’m wondering why I bother.”

Sherlock grinned delightedly.  Sally had the good grace to look chastened.

“Sorry.” She mumbled, before turning her face to look up at the younger man. “You still can’t go in there.”

Being careful not to touch her Sherlock stepped to his right, and as she moved to block him he whipped around to the left, outsmarting her and disappearing though the door she had been guarding.  As it slammed shut Sally was left to face the now stern looking doctor.

“And are you going to tell me I can’t go in there too?”

With a defiant glare Sally stepped to one side.

“Thank you.” John gave her a curt nod, but as he started to move past her she laid a hand on his arm. He stopped and looked at her.

“Do you really do that?  Try to stop him being rude, I mean?”

“Think about it. Then think back to how much worse it used to be.” John continued past her and into the back room where Sherlock and Greg Lestrade were standing looking down at a third man, seated behind a tatty desk. Neither man acknowledged his entrance, but the man in the chair looked pleadingly at him.

“Who’s this then?” John asked

“Micky Harrison, he’s the club manager, “Greg said, as if having to repeat himself.

“Ah”

“Yes, that’s what I said too! What did Sally want with you?”

“How did…oh never mind” John shook his head. “Has he told you anything yet?”

“Not much, only that he rented out one of the attic storage rooms to Phillips.”

“I thought you’d searched all the local clubs?”

“Apparently the door to this room is disguised behind some shelves…”

“We used it for storing cups and medals.” A weak voice piped up, and all three investigators looked down at the squirming man. “Not that we won many, but you can’t keep silverware on show in an area like this!”

“And Phillips?” Sherlock leaned down until he was face to face with the frightened man. “Was he a friend of yours? We must assume so; why else would you hide him here?”

“No! No you don’t understand….”

“Explain then!”

“He knows….knew…. my brother…..they….”

“Oh for goodness sake, stop babbling!”

“Sherlock!” Lestrade snapped, but mention of the younger man’s name caused the blood to drain from Harrison’s face.

“ _You’re_ Sherlock Holmes?  Oh God…..”

“Name mean something to you?” the pitch of Sherlock’s voice dropped and he sounded positively menacing as his eyes narrowed, and he stared into frightened brown eyes. “Now, why should that be, I wonder?”

John moved across the cramped space to lean against the wall behind the desk.

“If I were you I’d think carefully about how you answer that” he said softly. Lestrades eyes widened as he looked up at the doctor. John gave a little shake of his head and continued “You’ve obviously heard of him, maybe you should consider telling him why you reacted like that, and he may consider _not_ taking you apart…”

“T…t…taking me apart?”

Sherlock looked down at him and raised an elegant eyebrow.  “Are you thinking that the good Detective Inspector will stop me? No, don’t look at him” this was said as the frightened man tried to look away, “look at me. Your….. _friend_ …..stabbed Dr Watson on his first visit to our flat, on his second he tried to rearrange my face….”

As Sherlock spoke Lestrade found himself staring at John, John stared calmly back, his expression carefully neutral. This was a side of Holmes and Watson he’d not seen before – and he found himself wondering how many times they had slipped into this method of information gathering.

“…now your friend is dead. Believe it or not, that was not of my doing, but I can make you wish you were right there with him!”

“M…..my brother, he’s in the Scrubs, he got himself nicked, see, working for some bloke importing fake designer stuff….”

“Akaid!” Sherlock hissed, not quite under his breath.

“Anyway, Bill was one of the team, but he wasn’t there when….well, when the others got caught.  He came to me then, asked for somewhere to stay.” Drawing a shaky breath he continued “he promised if I helped him, he’d bring down the bastard that got my brother arrested….”

His voice trailed off, and he looked up at the consulting detective, but Sherlock had straightened up and was looking at John.

“Terry Harrison!” They spoke in unison.

“Lestrade, I need to have a look round Phillips’ room.  Then,” he glanced back at the manager, who was now holding his head in his hands, his elbows on the desk, his whole demeanour one of resignation, “John and I will be paying Harrison a visit.”

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An integral part of staying safe has always been knowing how to cover your tracks – or in this case, knowing how not to make those tracks in the first place.

Peter Carson waited in the restaurant area of the Woodman’s Inn in Epping Forest, seated at a discreet table for two, a small black briefcase on the floor beside the table. Despite the bright sunny day he had chosen a particularly shadowed corner where he and his guest were unlikely to be interrupted.

His guest arrived just as Carson was finishing his first drink, and they shook hands before sitting again and perusing the menu.  Once meals and drinks were ordered, the smuggler sat back in his chair and looked at his companion.

“I understand you solved that little waste disposal problem we had in London recently, Matthieson.”

Matthieson nodded, crossing one leg over the other and almost fastidiously straightening the knife-sharp crease in his trousers.

“The new contract ensured a thorough clean up.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a mobile phone, placing it on the table beside him. Pausing while the waitress delivered their drinks and assured them there food order would be with them shortly, Matthieson watched as she walked away before saying “Have we news of the new arrival?”

“Baby’s due any day now,” Carson responded with a smile, “in fact I can hardly contain my excitement.” His relaxed posture was at odd with his words, but to anyone listening there was nothing out of the ordinary in their conversation.

Their meal was served in due course, and the conversation turned to business, the state of the stock exchange in particular, and the state of the nation in general. The two men gave the overall impression of being no more that friends and colleagues sharing a business lunch.

When, almost two hours later, they parted company, Carson picked up the phone from the table and placed it in his suit jacket pocket, rising to his feet and shaking Matthieson warmly by the hand.  Matthieson rose too, and picking up the briefcase made his way out of the restaurant and into a waiting black saloon car.

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The cab pulled up outside the red and white brick towered façade of Wormwood Scrubs Prison, and Sherlock leapt out, leaving John to pay the fare and follow him into the imposing Victorian building.

Mycroft, when applied to by the good doctor, had smoothed the way for them (much to Sherlock’s chagrin, however John had refused to attempt to ‘fake’ their way in to a prison – Baskerville had been enough for one lifetime!) and the prison governor was waiting for them. 

After a brief interview, at which they were advised that John wouldn’t be allowed to take his walking stick into the main building, they found themselves being led down echoing corridors by a senior prison officer towards the visitors’ area of A wing. As they walked John leaned slightly towards Sherlock and spoke in low tones.

“They have an Intense Drug Treatment wing here.”

“Your point being?” Sherlock’s voice was equally quiet.

“No point really, just your brother happened to mention it to me when I asked him for help getting in here.”

“He would!  I told you asking for his help was a mistake.”

John grinned. “And you really think that the ‘beaten up’ look would have made it through the security area unchallenged?”

Sherlock huffed but remained quiet.

The visitor area was a large room with twenty or so tables which, during normal visiting times would have been filled with prisoners and their loved ones.  Today just one man sat, bewildered, at a table in the middle of the room, staring at the door.

Terry Harrison looked up as the door at the end of the room opened, and watched as the two men walked forward.

Sherlock seated himself in the chair opposite the prisoner, John chose to sit on the edge of a table slightly behind his friend.

“Now, Mr Harrison,” Sherlock leant forward, speaking deceptively softly,  “I want you to tell me all about Pierce Akaid”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Anyone who spots the significance of the container number can award yourself a hug from Sherlock or John (take your pick!!)……


	10. Chapter 10

Greg Lestrade looked up to see Sherlock and John walking towards his office.  He glanced towards the man sitting in the chair opposite him, but he appeared totally at ease, drinking the police canteen tea with only the merest hint of disgust.

Sherlock burst through the door without even having the courtesy to knock, and stopped dead.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

John recognised that particular tone in Sherlocks voice, and so was not at all surprised, when he finally followed him through the door, to see Mycroft.  His lips twitched into a small smile as he noticed the canteen crockery.

“You really must let me buy you a tea, John.” Mycroft’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. John grinned back.

“No thanks, I’m fine.”

“Well?” Sherlock demanded. Mycroft turned his eyes unhurriedly up to his brother, his expression carefully neutral.

“I came here to give Detective Inspector Lestrade some information about Pierce Akaid and his known associates.” He placed his half-finished drink on the desk. “I would have spoken to you first, but neither of you had your phones switched on in the prison, and as I didn’t know how long you were going to be…”

“Well, if you’re going to tell me about Gavin Matthieson, I had that information from Terry Harrison!”

“How did you manage that?” Lestrade looked intrigued. “Since he got nicked he’s denied all knowledge of Akaid and his network.”

“I simply told him that Akaid arranged William Phillips death, and that Phillips had been living in his brother’s boxing club, “ he smiled a little wolfishly  “and if I know that, then I’m sure Akaid and his associates would know”

“He thought that by telling us, hopefully we’ll do something about it before Akaid decides to act against his brother.” John picked up the story. “He’s heard about Phillips – he’s scared.  He hadn’t realised, ‘til Sherlock told him, just how close to home this was getting. ”

Both Mycroft and Lestrade nodded, understanding at once the rationale.

“Was he able, brother dear, to tell you where to find this Matthieson fellow?”

“No, I was rather hoping you could tell me that.” There was a challenge in Sherlock’s face and voice.  Mycroft didn’t rise to the bait.

“I can tell you that he’s been active in the smuggling business, his name has been – shall we say – bandied about by several known traders.”

“You’re brother has been good enough to let me know who those traders are, but we’re not going to move on them until we get the ringleaders.”

“Akaid and Matthieson.”

“And any others that Scotland Yard can prove are associated with them.” Mycroft stood and hooked his umbrella over his arm. “Thank you for the tea, Lestrade, you must let me return the favour some time.”

 “Oh…uh…you’re welcome.” Lestrade stood also, and watched as the elder Holmes brother all but glided from the room.

“Don’t do it.” John said quietly into the stillness in the room.

Sherlock looked at him, a half smile on his lips.

“Don’t do what?” Greg caught sight of the smile, and his frown deepened.

“Go to tea with Mycroft.  He’ll kidnap you in one of his nasty black cars, and if you’re very lucky you’ll find yourself in his Whitehall office, but if he’s in a bad mood…..”  John fought to keep a straight face.

“Yes, very funny John.” gesturing to them to sit Greg pushed a small pile of files towards their side of the desk.  John sat, but Sherlock just grabbed at the top file and read the name written on it.

“James Harrold?” he looked at the next one “Matthew Lucas?  Are these the traders?”

“Yeah, I thought you might like to have a read through what we know about some of them, see if there’s anything that we’ve missed….”

“That’ll be everything of note then….”

“Sherlock.”  John shook his head, exasperated, “Not everyone has your powers of deduction. Stop being an annoying dick and be grateful of the help…”

The younger man wasn’t listening; he was scanning the reports in the first file.

“We’ll take these…”

“No you won’t, Sherlock,” Lestrade was adamant. “You’ll have to read them here. Look, I’ve got an office you can use, but I really can’t let you take these home – they’re live files – what if this Akaid bloke recruits someone else to break into your flat?” He quickly scooped the files into his arms. “Come on, you can use the office upstairs.”

Sulking, Sherlock followed Lestrade, the eyes of every officer in the room watching their progress through.  John trailed along behind, nodding acknowledgement to a few of the officers he knew from various crime scenes, deliberately avoiding Sally Donovan.

In the unused office, Sherlock had already thrown himself back into the files.  Not even looking up as john entered, he pushed half the files to the far side of the table.

“Notes, John, as detailed as possible.”

Sliding into a chair, John pulled out his notebook.  Greg stared at him, dumbfounded. John grinned.

“How did you think we worked Greg? I’ll make notes from all the files, things that look important to me, and he’ll read all the files and write the information that looks important to him in that virtual notebook in his head.” Opening the first file he continued “When we get home, he’ll sit down with my notes, and compare them to his notes.”

“And does it work?” fascination coloured Greg’s words, and he almost held his breath waiting for the answer.  John didn’t disappoint.

“Most of the time, yes,” he said honestly, “but sometimes not, sometimes he gets part of it, sometimes none.  Then we talk, or rather he talks and I re-read my notes.  Invariably though….”

Greg whistled.  He hadn’t really appreciated just how much the ex-army doctor brought to the partnership, and he looked at him with renewed respect.

“Invariably I get it right.” Sherlock interrupted tetchily “Now John _, please_! The sooner we get this done the sooner we can go home.”

John just smiled as he applied himself to the task in hand. Lestrade shook his head and left, reminding them to return all the files to him before they leave.

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At almost four in the morning, as the sun sent pink fingers of light through the windows of 221B, Sherlock suddenly sat upright on the couch, his eyes wide, his lips shaping an ‘oh’ of realisation,  and leaping to his feet his dashed up the stairs two at a time.

“John……John!” he burst into the upstairs bedroom. “John, don’t just lay there – I believe we have a lead!”

John groaned and opened one eye.

“Go away, Sherlock, come back in the morning.”

“It is morning, John! Come on – up!” he grabbed John’s duvet, but the doctor had anticipated that move, and his fists clutched tightly at the thick down-filled cover.

“Sod off, Sherlock!

“Come on John, I need tea!”  Whirling around the consulting detective dashed back down the stairs, leaving his flatmate now wide awake and cursing quietly under his breath.

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At the same time as John finally dragged himself down the stairs, the container ship John Dory was preparing to dock in Felixstowe harbour.  In the harbour lorry park, a non-descript white unit and trailer pulled in, its driver directed to a place where he could park up and wait.  In a few hours the ship’s cargo would be unloaded, and container BCA1887N would be on its way to its final destination – an industrial estate in Braintree, Essex.

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Sherlock was pacing back and forth in front of the windows, muttering to himself.

 Barefoot and wearing just his blue and grey striped dressing gown, John wandered into the living room, two mugs of tea in his hands.

“This had better be good, Sherlock,” he said quietly as he handed the other man a mug of steaming liquid.

“I think I have it, John, the connection, the next move!”

John sat in his chair, crossed one leg over the other and waited expectantly.  He didn’t have to wait long. Sherlock dropped John’s notebook into his lap.

“Look closely at your own notes, John, you have the connection there – _right there_ – John, you saw it, you just didn’t make that leap!”

“No, that’s what you do, Sherlock, I just get up at stupid times in the morning to make you tea while you crow about how brilliant you are!”

Sherlock frowned, wondering if he’d missed something important. “John?”

John waved a hand at him, and took a healthy swig of his tea.

“Look at your notes, look at the names John, the names connect them!”

“Names?”

“Yes, John, names!  Look at the names!”

Putting his mug down, John opened his notebook and started reading, conscious of the other man alternately standing looking over his shoulder and staring out of the window at the waking London streets. 

The remnant of his mug of tea was cold by the time he had read and re-read his notes. Sherlock watched with a slight smile on his face as John reached for a scrap of paper and started making notes from his notes, picking out the recurring names and places, drawing up timelines.

“They all have a connection to Sanderson Imports, the company that Akaid used as a front for his smuggling.” John said, finally, rubbing at his forehead with a couple of fingers, as if to stimulate thought processes. 

“And….”

“And…..” blue eyes flicked again at the notes in front of him “and there are also connections to another importer, Beaumaris, although that’s less obvious, because they import wines and spirits rather than clothing.”

“The Managing Director of Beaumaris is a Jeremy Quintain,” Sherlock sat down opposite his friend and leaned forward, his eyes glowing. “Quintain is married, his wife’s maiden name is Jones, and she has three siblings – two sisters and a brother.”

Again the reference to the notes, then “Jones – he’s one of the traders.”

“Correct!  And while he is interesting, the sisters are more so. One is married to Gavin Matthieson, who has recently become a junior partner in a fairly new import/export business with one Peter Carson.”

“And the other?” John was almost certain he knew the answer.

“The other is married to Pierce Akaid!”

 

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

After that last episode, Greg Lestrade was on the look-out for Sherlock Bloody Holmes as he walked past the deserted desks to his own office, carefully carrying his coffee.  Noticing the door was already open he groaned – that could only mean one thing, that the boy wonder was already here.

Sherlock’s eyes followed the Detective Inspector as he walked around his desk and set his coffee carefully down before taking off his jacket and hanging it on the coat stand.

“I’m sure you have a very good reason to be here,” he said “but do you really have to break into my office at a time when most _sane_ people are still in bed?”

“Yeah, tell me about it!” John muttered, not quite under his breath. Greg threw a grin in his direction.

“Get you up early, did he?”

“You have no idea,” the doctor sighed.

“And I think you’ll be interested to know that we have some connections for you!”  Sherlock pushed a sheet of paper across the desk. “I’ve made enquiries from shipping agents at all the ports, to see if any shipments have come into the country for Carson Importers Ltd – what when and where – and I’ve sent a request to Companies House for more detailed information about the company itself…or rather, _you_ have.”

“Right, okay. And once we have…..hang on – _I_ have? What d’you mean, I have?”

“Well they are hardly likely to respond quickly to any request I make, so I emailed them from your computer.”

Greg gaped at him, speechless, and switching on his computer saw several messages in the ‘sent’ box that were timed at

“6am? You’ve been here since 6am?”

“Actually he talked his way in past the officers on the front door at around 5.45.” John explained calmly. “Seriously Greg, we know he’s good, but hacking your system and typing e-mails takes a little time.”

“I could have done it that fast if I wanted to.”  Sherlock huffed.

“That’s hardly the point.” John pointed out.

“Well what was the point?”

“Not arguing, Sherlock. Behave or I’m sodding off back home to bed.  I’ve been up for hours already and not had nearly enough sleep lately!”

Looking up from the e-mails, Greg glanced at the two men bickering in his office. He was going to make a sarcastic remark, but he looked at John’s face and something he saw there, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, stopped him.  Instead he looked questioningly at the ex-army doctor.

John looked calmly back at him, the merest hint of a frown in his eyes.

“I don’t know, Greg.  Something feels wrong, it’s like overkill. Everything they have done has been too much, too vicious if you like, for it to be just another attempt at making a quick profit on substandard goods.”

“And you think…?”

“I don’t know, it just doesn’t feel right.” John shook his head.

Greg looked from him to Sherlock, but the younger man just shrugged. Seeing their puzzlement John smiled and ran a hand through his hair.

“Take no notice, I’m probably just tired.”

“Yes, you are John, but you’ve been tired before, and it doesn’t usually make you twitchy”

“Twitchy?” John grinned suddenly.  “With your command of the English language the best you can come up with is twitchy?”

Sherlock chose to ignore the jibe and turned back to Greg.

“If we can catch them in the act…”

“Since when do you care about smuggling and fake designer clothing?” Greg scoffed

“Since they tried to kill us,” Sherlock replied quietly “and since John’s natural awareness for dangerous situations has made him…” he quirked an eyebrow at his friend “twitchy.”

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By mid-morning the two directors of Carson Importers Ltd were standing in a warehouse carefully inspecting the contents of container BCA1887N.  A slow smile spread over Peter Carson’s face.

“This should net us close to five hundred grand!” he rubbed his hands together “A fair profit for one shipment don’t you think Gav?”

 “And if this goes well there’s plenty more where it came from!” Matthieson agreed. “What about Holmes, though? Has he got anything on us?”

“Nah, if he had I would have heard about it by now. And there is nothing to link us to Phillips’ death – as far as the filth are concerned it’s most likely a grudge, a falling out of thieves.” His lip curled disdainfully “The man was an idiot. He should have finished that bloody Watson bloke off when he had the chance, instead of running scared.” Carson waved a hand as if to close the discussion. “Right, we have the orders in place for this stuff, let’s get the lads in to load up the vans, sort the paperwork, and get this stuff out of here as soon as possible.”

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Sherlock, John and Greg Lestrade had papers laid out across the meeting room table. Information had been coming in thick and fast about Carson Importers Ltd and they were fast building up a picture of the new network that, rather like a phoenix, was rising from the ashes of Akaids once mighty empire.

Sally Donovan had – much to her disgust – been brought in to chase down leads and track the information coming from the shipping agents.    She was sure it was John’s idea of revenge, and so the next fax that came through to her was slapped on the table in front of him, with as much force as she could get away with.  Her dramatic gesture missed its mark though, and not just because John was used to Sherlock’s theatrical flouncing.

John’s eye was drawn immediately to the shipping manifest and he stood, staring at the words on the paper, a look of extreme concentration on his face.

“Found something?” Sherlock asked, seeing his friend’s expression. John slid the paper towards him, and Greg leaned over his shoulder to get a look at it.

“Mean something?” the Detective Inspector asked.

“This Vodka, twenty one thousand bottles of Sobiesk Estate, it’s all wrong.”

Sherlock’s interest heightened.

“Why?” he asked

“Look at the address of the distillery –Italy. Not possible.”

“They all use fake Russian names these days!” Sally piped up from the doorway.

“No, Sally, not this particular Vodka.  This stuff retails at around £24 a bottle, is made in Poland and is one of their premier brands.” He glanced at Sherlock, a sad half smile on his face. “I should know, my sister used to buy it by the crate.”

Sally looked startled, as did Greg, but Sherlock just gave a slight nod, acknowledging his friend’s greater knowledge and looked again at the manifest.

“Vodka from Italy?”

“They make it all over the place these days – even America.” John stared off into the distance. “They were taking one hell of a chance, I mean, what if the paperwork had crossed the desk of someone who knew about Vodka? They’d have been seriously screwed.”

Greg skewed the paper and scribbled on a notepad in his hand, then ripped the sheet out and handed it to his Sergeant.

“I want a large scale map of this area, and a confirmed time that the container left Felixstowe,” as Sally turned away he looked at the detective and the doctor, leaning his hands on the table and letting out a gusty sigh. “If that’s cheap booze under a premium label, they’ll want to shift it quickly.”

 

Sherlock and John nodded agreement.

“I propose we put a team together and raid the warehouse, now, before they have time to move it out.  We have enough evidence here to get a warrant.”

“You’ll take firearms trained officers?” John asked quietly

“I think so,” Greg agreed. “It’ll take a little time to get it together….”

“Right, we’ll leave you to it then!” Sherlock straightened up suddenly from his scrutiny of the papers on the table. “Come on John.”

“Wait a minute…”

“No, really Inspector, you know there is no way the Chief Superintendent would sanction us being involved.”

Greg looked both astounded and disbelieving. “And you’re just going to walk away?”

Sherlock smiled suddenly.

“Of course not, we’ll meet you there.” He said as he walked out of the door, John hot on his heels.

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Four unmarked police cars, each carrying four officers, slid quietly into the kerbside and Lestrade jumped out to talk to the two men, hidden by the large ‘To Let’ sign beside the empty industrial unit.

“Two vans went in about thirty minutes ago,” Sherlock said as the older man approached.

“And I’ve done a tour round the building,” John smiled as he caught Greg’s startled expression “keeping out of sight, of course! There are the two van drivers, a couple of teenagers helping with the loading, Akaid or whatever he calls himself these days, and one other – I’m guessing that’s Gavin Matthieson.  There’s no vehicle access at the back, just a door into the building.”

“Right” Lestrade turned to his officers, “I want two cars manned and ready in case they try to make a run for it with the vans, everyone else, with me.”

“Me and Sherlock will take the back”

“Okay,” Greg thought for a moment, then “Sally, you’d better go too.”

“But, Sir…”

“Really Lestrade,” Sherlock huffed, “We don’t need…”

“It’s that or I cuff you to the car.” Greg was adamant. “If it all goes tits up I don’t want to have to explain it either to the powers that be or your bloody brother!”

Sherlock and Donovan glared at each other, but remained silent. John straightened himself up, gave a sharp nod, and started walking away from the milling police officers, leading the other two along the same route he had taken earlier. 

Taking up a sheltered position where they could see the back of the warehouse, Sally radioed their readiness to Lestrade.  They watched as Greg and the remaining six officers walked towards the building.

Inside the warehouse, Matthieson was the first to spot their unwanted guests.  With a shouted warning to ‘clear out, now!’ he bolted through the building, closely followed by his co-director.

The two teenagers tried to rush out through the front, but a cry of “Armed police! Stand still!” stopped them in their tracks. Moving carefully, not putting himself between the armed officers and the terrified boys, Lestrade moved forward.

At the back of the building, Matthieson and Carson burst through the doors, only to be grabbed, and in Carson’s case, spun round and slammed against the wall, by John and Sherlock.  Sherlock held Matthieson in a full-Nelson, while John opted to throw his prisoner face down on the concrete and held him there with a knee in the small of his back.

“Just give me an excuse to break your back, you vicious bastard!” he hissed in the man’s ear, removing a gun from the man’s pocket and stowing it in his own as Sally approached.

“Peter Carson, or should I say Pierce Akaid?” she leant down as she spoke, and ‘cuffed him. “I’m arresting you on suspicion of smuggling incorrectly labelled alcohol, with intend to defraud the public…”

The rest of her sentence was drowned by the squealing of tyres and shouts from the around the front of the building, as predictably the drivers of the two vans tried to get away. There was a thud, and the sound of someone hitting the floor with some force. 

John was up and running round the building.

“Sergeant – take him!” Sherlock dragged his struggling prisoner to where Sally stood, a second pair of handcuffs ready, then dashed after his friend. He slowed suddenly as he saw the officers standing around the body on the floor, John on one knee beside the fallen man.

“Greg, can you hear me?” John’s voice was calm. He didn’t acknowledge Sherlock’s arrival beside him, ordering several officers to assist Sergeant Donovan. His hands gently moved over the Detective Inspector’s head, then worked down his body, checking for injuries.  “Try not to move, Greg, at least not until I’ve checked you over.”

As John’s hands moved over the patient’s leg, he hissed in pain.  John stopped immediately.

“Okay, Greg, it could be worse.” John sat back, relieved. “Looks like you’ve got a broken leg, some nasty grazes, and possibly concussion. Your guys have called for an ambulance.” He looked up at the remaining officer standing beside him. “What happened?”

“Van driver, Sir, didn’t realise he was in the vehicle, so when he started it we weren’t fast enough to get out of the way. He sideswiped the DI and hared off.” His radio crackled and he listened for a moment before continuing “they’ve stopped both vehicles, Sir, and caught the drivers.” His words were addressed more to the officer on the floor, and John looked down to see Greg peering  up at him, a question in his eyes.

“We got them, all of them” John grinned down at him.

“And you get all the kudos.” Sherlock added, an unusually soft expression on his face. “And by the sound of things, you ambulance is moments away.” But Greg wasn’t listening, he’d closed his eyes and given into the blackness that had overtaken his consciousness.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Slowly, half hopping half walking, Greg made his way to his front door.  He still hadn’t really got the hang of walking on crutches, and the cuts and grazes were still quite raw.

The doorbell rung for a second time, and he heard a voice outside chastising whoever was leaning on the bell.  A smile graced his face as he finally reached and opened the door.

“Sorry Greg, “ John said getting in before his flatmate could speak, “I told him not to be so impatient, but you know Sherlock!”

“Well of course he does, John!” Sherlock said with a deal of asperity as he walked into the flat, “Stupid thing to say.”

Greg stood back to let the doctor in, eyeing the brown paper bag the man carried.

“Ah,” John smiled “We brought Thai, hope that’s okay?”

“Great,” He hopped along, leading the way to the small kitchen diner.

Once they were sitting, Sherlock filled the older man in on the results of the case.

“The information we had managed to net quite a few of the smaller fish, as well as putting a spanner in the works a couple of foreign networks.” He said, pushing his food around his plate. “Akaid/Carson, or whatever he wants to call himself, and Matthieson are both on remand until the trial – they asked for bail but it was refused on the grounds that they are likely to disappear.”

“Dimmock is keeping your team in check for you, “ John added, “although I think he and Sally don’t quite see eye to eye!”

Greg looked a little thoughtfully at the blond doctor.

“I haven’t thanked you for…” his voice trailed off and he gestured at his plastered limb.

“No need, mate.” John demurred. “I didn’t really do anything, other than stop your guys worrying or trying to move you.”

“Yeah, well...”

“Oh, and you’re up for some sort of commendation” the doctor changed the subject quickly, “for bringing down a vicious smuggling gang, and averting tragedy.”

Greg frowned, perplexed, his eyes darting between the two men.

“They let me test the contents of one of the bottles – although they then wasted their money getting the same test done by an expensive independent lab.” Sherlock’s disgust was obvious in his voice. 

“And?”

“And, Greg, the quality and alcohol content of those bottles was lethal.  If it didn’t kill, it’s likely it would leave the drinker blind or brain damaged.” 

“Jesus!”

“So, here’s to the man who has saved a generation of teenage drinkers from the consequences of their stupidity!” John raised his coffee cup in mock salute towards their host.

“Here, here.” Sherlock agreed quietly, leaving Lestrade with absolutely nothing to say!

 

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies to any medical specialists reading this – my last first aid trainer assured me the tourniquet method of slowing bleeding is only used in extreme cases, but as poor John was on his own I feel he would have taken that precautionary measure. Again, as a doctor he would ordinarily advise that the knife not be removed until medical assistance arrived, but the knowledge that if he passed out he could push the blade in further and do some real damage was the overriding factor in it's removal.


End file.
